


Threads

by KRyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Season/Series 04, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn/pseuds/KRyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When we were forced to abandon the Library, I managed to destroy any digital trace of our activities that might offer a means to track us, even in our new identities. Nonetheless, we left behind a treasure trove of clues that offered certain...investigatory options for Samaritan to pursue. I thought it best to keep an eye open."</p><p> </p><p>In the fourth season opener, Greer queries Samaritan as to the status of its efforts to hunt down Finch and Company. The response--'ongoing.' "Threads" is a series of short stories, each chapter a stand-alone, exploring some of the ways Samaritan might attempt to draw our heroes out of hiding. </p><p> </p><p>Ratings and tags may change with each chapter. Please check the notes for warnings and spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bombshell

**Author's Note:**

> The impetus for this series originated in two episodes-- The season 3 finale and those heartbreaking scenes of Finch and Reese abandoning the Library, and an early scene in the first episode of Season 4, when we learn Samaritan's investigation to find our heroes is 'ongoing'. While Root and her hackers managed to insert blind spots into Samaritan's servers to protect them in their new identities, I was intrigued by the idea of what use Samaritan and Greer might make of items left behind in the Library, or other insignificant loose ends the crew has left in their wake, to find them. 
> 
> Each chapter will be a stand-alone story/ficlet, exploring these ideas. I've rated the series Mature and for an established relationship between Harold and John, although individual stories may not reflect this status. The series takes place in early Season 4, shortly after they've moved into the subway Haven, but stories may include spoilers for episodes post Nautilus. Chapter notes may be helpful to review if you have concerns in any of these areas. 
> 
> My thanks to the core group at the Person of Interest Discussion forum Writers Chat who brainstormed ideas for this series.

*************************************************************************************************

_Your handwriting. The way you walk. Which china pattern you choose. It's all giving you away._

**********************************************************************************************

 

"Please don't click on that."

Shaw's finger lifted a fraction off the mouse in conditioned response to the command hidden in Finch's politely phrased request. On the monitor screen, the cursor hovered over an innocuous-looking hyperlink. She swiveled her chair to eye Harold curiously. 

She couldn't read anything alarming in the bland expression that masked his face, but his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the metal subway car doorway, told another story. 

"Why? Will something explode?" 

She'd meant it as a joke, although some excitement would be welcome. Being stuck below for the last four hours on monitoring duty had left her chafing for action. Bored out of her skull, she had resorted to paging through the local 'For Sale/Barter' on-line listings for amusement. It was amazing to see some of the 'must-have' crap people posted, and the prices they wanted for those items. 

Finch didn't seem to find any humor in her teasing response, although his eyes widened almost comically for a moment before narrowing to pinch a frown line between lowered brows. Flickering lines of code from another monitor scrolled their reflections in the lenses of his glasses, an odd juxtaposition of motion in contrast to the tense stillness of his body language. 

"If you open that link," he cautioned, "someone on the West Side, whose web address I've spoofed, will receive a visit from some very unsavory...guests." 

He offered the explanation with the same calm, even tone she'd grown used to hearing in her earpiece on missions. The meat of the message contained the implied threat. 

She glanced back at the description on the screen below the hyperlink. It detailed the offer of a first-edition Jane Austin--"Pride and Prejudice"--supposedly in excellent condition. The listing had unearthed the memory of seeing several books by that author in Finch's collection in the old Library. Simple curiosity had prompted her to take a look. Now she stared at the short descriptive phrases on the item, trying to find the snake hiding in the grass, and failing. 

She half-turned toward him, waving a hand dismissively at the screen. "It's an old book, Harold. The guy who's selling it found it in his father's house when he was clearing the estate."

"It's one of mine."

Okay...that put a different spin on things. 

Battle-ready tension quivered the hairs on the back of her neck, shading Shaw's reply to flat, biting terseness.

"Yours. From the Library."

Finch nodded stiffly. "If you check the description, you'll note the volume in question has one dog-eared corner on page 87, and a nick in front cover...which might resemble a tooth mark." He cast a meaningful glare at Bear, who stood at his side. "This is the 32nd volume I've traced. I undoubtedly missed a few...placements, before I learned what to look for. I'm quite certain my signed first edition of "Great Expectations" is currently residing within the private collection library at the college where Professor Whistler teaches. Not that I've signed it out to examine it in detail."

That creepy-crawly feeling that accompanied the point of an op when she suddenly discovered things were not as they seemed, itched at her joints. Damn, had she really been wishing for some excitement just a few minutes earlier? 

"Samaritan." Statement, not question. Harold offered another tight nod. "How can you tell?" she pressed, still not quite ready to buy into his claim.

The tension in Finch's shoulders eased slightly, accompanied by a barely audible huff of breath. He released his grip on the door frame, flexing his fingers for a moment before stepping forward. He reached past her, fingers flicking across the keyboard. The monitor screen mounted to her left blanked and then scrolled lines of code, stark white against night black. It prompted a memory of her old partner Cole doing something similar to create a partition on one of his laptops, so he could examine a questionable email without the danger of infecting his entire system with a sneaky virus.

Finch tabbed a few more keys. The scrolling halted, one innocent-looking fragment of code highlighted in red. "That's the watchdog," Harold stated. 

As if prompted by the canine reference, Bear butted gently between them, leaning in to rest his head on her lap in a not-so-subtle bid for attention. Shaw absently scratched behind his ears. "The code is a trap," she said succinctly, cutting to the chase. 

"An alert, activated when the hyperlink to contact the seller or review a longer synopsis of the book's condition is clicked," he elaborated. "Think of it as a barking dog alerting its owner that there's someone at the door. The book is bait, dangled for a very specific quarry."

"You."

"All seven of us would qualify, but this particular temptation is designed for me, yes."

With another flurry of keys and flashing code, the screen cleared, and then filled with the original content. Harold straightened, pain evident in the grimace that carved deeper lines at the corners of his eyes as he shifted his weight. 

Shaw eyed the 'For Sale' posting containing the trap she'd almost sprung. Finch had always operated on a high-alert level of suspicion, looking for trip wires and booby traps everywhere, but this...this spoke to a degree of paranoia she hadn't seen before. Justified, obviously, if he was correct, but still...

"How the hell did you discover this?" she muttered. "What tipped you off?"

"When we were forced to abandon the Library, I managed to destroy any digital trace of our activities that might offer a means to track us, even in our new identities. Nonetheless, we left behind a treasure trove of clues that offered certain...investigatory options for Samaritan to pursue. I thought it best to keep an eye open."

She tried to picture what clues he was referring to, but her mental map was foggy--her last visit to the Library had been several days prior to Samaritan coming fully online. In all likelihood, Harold had probably initiated something equivalent to a thermal meltdown when he'd crashed his system. Beyond wiping the data, it had undoubtedly fried any hardware attached. Finch typically shredded the paper trail on their successful Numbers so it didn't seem as though that would offer Greer and Company any leads. 

The boards of lost chances contained specific information--photos, social security numbers, newspaper clippings, tied together with those strange red strings--but those were literal dead ends. And, if she remembered correctly, most of those Numbers had popped up prior to Reese being recruited. It was unlikely anything from those lost souls could offer a means to identify either the ex-op or Finch. 

Shelves of old books, a dog bed, and some unwashed dishes, didn't seem to offer much in the way of traceable evidence.

"You think Samaritan's assets are going to find something incriminating in your trash can, Finch?" she asked dryly.

"John once deduced the location of what he believed to be my home, by tracking the manufacturer's code imprinted on a cardboard cup of tea I'd purchased." 

Well that was...alarming. Her expression must have revealed her dismay. Harold tilted his head, studying her intently. 

"The first relevant Number the Machine identified belonged to Gordon Kurzweil, a DIA case officer with Top Secret clearance," he explained, the tone of his voice reflecting the soft edge that often accompanied the replaying of a memory. "Kurzweil had successfully passed the FBI background checks for 20 years. After the Machine spit out his social security number, your previous employers were compelled to take a closer look. They watched him carefully for two weeks. Found nothing. Then he went for a drive to Bethesda. At a park, he picked up a phone dropped by a Syrian businessman. Via coded SMS, Kurzweil arranged to sell 26 pounds of weapons-grade uranium to the Iranian government.

"A gas station receipt from three years _earlier_ was the detail that triggered the closer look at Kurzweil's activities. The Machine found eighteen receipts, from a Shell station just outside Towson, Maryland. Kurzweil stopped there every third Thursday of every even month, even if he'd filled up the day before. On three of his eighteen visits, an SUV was present at the same station for two hours prior to his arrival. It was a dead drop. The SUV was registered to the wife of a Turkish oil executive that paid for plane tickets used by an Iranian suspect in the bombing of a Jewish community center in Buenos Aires, in 1994.

"The thinnest thread connected Kurzweil, and his contact...and the Machine could see it."

Finch blinked and cleared his throat quietly before focusing on her once again. "That was before I'd even finished coding the Machine. Before we gave it to the government. Long before it moved itself. If the Machine could take that insignificant receipt and build a complete pattern in its...infancy, and within the constraints I'd programmed, consider what Samaritan can do, running unleashed."

It took her a moment to process. It was mind-boggling. "So this book...part of your collection from the Library...it's one of those threads."

"In this case it's a noose, but yes. One book in itself offers a limited amount of information. A preference for a specific author or genre, for example. A limited first edition volume infers the purchaser has a relative level of wealth. The rarer the book, the fewer sources for purchase. A _collection_ of rare first-editions...that creates a pattern, which is significantly easier to trace."

"I've followed leads like that before, Finch, trying to track a mark. Just puzzling it out takes a hell of a lot of time."

"The human brain doesn't function the way an AI does, Miss Shaw," Harold noted gently. "The Machine, and Samaritan, can process and discard hundreds of thousands of permutations faster than you and I can blink. And they are constantly acquiring information...listening with a million ears, seeing with a million eyes...simultaneously comparing new data to what's already in archival memory. What appear to us to be random bits of data, are to an AI pieces in a yet to be finished puzzle. Once it intuits even the suggestion of a pattern, an AI can extrapolate countless potential 'pictures' of the finished model."

"So to avoid potential traps, we just have to avoid creating a pattern." 

He nodded. "Although it's much more difficult than you might expect. We don't intend to create patterns, but we do, unconsciously. It's the little things that betray us. The brand of toothpaste we buy, the bakery we find ourselves stopping in every Monday, because that's the day the owner's wife makes a certain pastry we're particularly fond of. A million little things that reveal who we are, what we think, what we believe in, who we love...our life stories, written in the detritus we purchase and discard daily, or hoard close.

"I taught The Machine to look for those details, build the patterns, watch for any break in them. To identify where paths cross and lives intersect. And then to dissect the pattern to find the unique identifier. To an AI, we're prime numbers--all that's left when the pattern is either taken away, or completed."

Shaw swallowed hard. "And Samaritan has the same capability."

"It's safer to assume that it does. I don't know what was on the drives Greer acquired, or what Decima might have done to the core codes to awaken his...creation, however Arthur Claypool and I shared theories regarding AI development when we were at MIT. The probability that programming commonalities exist is extremely high."

His mouth twisted in a bitter frown. "Certainly they didn't 'hobble' their creation as I did. Unlike the Machine, Samaritan can be pointed at a specific target."

"And we're at the top of its 'hit' list," she murmured. The sheer magnitude of what they were facing hit her. She slumped against the back of the chair. "Damn, Harold. Pushing back just got a lot more complicated."

"Life is infinitely complicated, Sameen."

She glanced up at him at the unexpected use of her first name. It struck her suddenly, how tired he looked. "How long have you been aware Samaritan might be hunting us this way?"

Finch broke eye contact and reached down to coast a hand down Bear's back. A murmured command sent the Malinois scrambling out of the car. 

She wasn't in the mood for avoidance. "Harold."

Lips pressed firmly together, Finch met her gaze stubbornly, but finally released a pent-up breath with a resigned sigh. "Since I closed the upper gate on the Library for the last time. I had hoped my suspicions wouldn't bear fruit, but..." He twitched the little sideways smile that often substituted for a shrug. 

Almost two months. No wonder he looked worn to the bone. 

"You haven't shared this with Reese." She suspected Finch had been keeping this bombshell to himself, or the damn fool wouldn't be running around in his trademark 'Man-in-the-suit' black, and leaving a bloody trail of knee-capped perps in his wake. 

"Not...not as of yet."

She leveled a glare at him. "You tell him, or I will."

He grimaced. "Of course. As soon as our schedules coincide for us to meet here. Neither Professor Whistler's office, nor the bullpen in Detective Riley's precinct are ideal for this...discussion."

No, they wouldn't be. Loud voices would be involved once Reese discovered Harold hadn't shared this little gem.

"I assume Professor Whistler is keeping an eye on the threads he's leaving in his wake?"

"Well, he doesn't drink Sencha green tea," Finch answered wryly. He tugged distastefully at the hem of his sport coat. "And he buys off the rack." 

She snorted softly. "I guess Sameen Gray won't be picking up those Giani Bernini boots she was eyeing, either. Not that I can afford them on a make-up counter peon's salary."

Her gaze strayed to the monitors again. Compared to the enemy hunting them, their resources were so limited as to be practically non-existent. How the hell could they expect to survive?

Harold reached out to pat her tentatively on the shoulder. "The tampering Root and her cohorts did to Samaritan's servers does buy us some degree of safety." 

"Yeah, but for how long? Using your analogy, our cover stories are practically worthless...like the seam of a cheaply made suit--pull the right thread, and the whole thing unravels." 

Bear reappeared in the doorway, leash in his mouth. Harold clipped it to the Malinois collar before turning back to look at her. 

"Then I suppose we'll have to become experts at tying knots." 

******************

Acknowledgements:

Dialogue and references to POI episodes, no copyright infringement intended. 

“...Your handwriting. The way you walk. Which china pattern you choose. It's all giving you away. Everything you do shows your hand. Everything is a self portrait. Everything is a diary.” --Chuck Palahniuk, "Diary"

“Pull a thread here and you’ll find it’s attached to the rest of the world.” --Nadeem Aslam, "The Wasted Vigil"


	2. A Rose By Any Other Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another aspect of Samaritan's hunt for our heroes surfaces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied off-screen violence against non-essential--except to advance the plot--characters. Chapter rated mature for M/M established relationship, but not explicit. Angst.
> 
> Teaser: "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet," is a frequently referenced line from William Shakespeare's play "Romeo and Juliet". The reference is often used to imply that the _names_ of things do not affect what they really are.

Harold backed out of the DarkNet carefully, setting false trails, masking his digital footprint in the white noise of a million other users until he was no more than a ghost that dispersed its electronic ectoplasm into the ether. 

Slumping heavily against the back of his chair, he pulled off his glasses, tossing them on the make-shift desk. A tension headache thrummed at his temples and stretched his forehead taut. He pinched hard at the bridge of his nose willing it to subside, and massaged the crick in the back of his neck that prolonged use of the raised monitors in the old subway car always produced. 

Surfing the underground of the Net had become a dangerous gambit, but there was information to be gleaned there, which was unavailable through safer, more conventional means. Discouraging, disheartening information to be sure, and not all of it trustworthy, but less likely to be tainted by an artificial source. The nuggets he'd extracted with this venture were more personally disturbing than most, but not, unfortunately, unexpected. 

With a resigned sigh, he replaced his glasses. Fingers flew across the keyboard, opening a secure database. A tap on the mouse sent a file to print. He closed all the pertinent windows and shoved to his feet with a stifled groan, stiff joints and knotted muscles scolding him for the hours of immobility. Steadying himself against the edge of the doorway to the car, he straightened slowly, feeling the pull the length of his spine as gravity asserted its influence over cramped vertebrae. 

On the floor outside the door, Bear lay in his dog bed, happily mangling the remains of a stuffed chew toy. Small pleasures. At least one of them was enjoying himself. 

Harold limped over to the printer, extracting the sheet he'd just sent. Retrieving a file folder from the back of a drawer in one of the ancient cabinets they'd found rusting in a side room of their new Haven, he carried both back to the wooden desk he had recently set up in the outer room, laying the folder next to his closed laptop. He traced his fingers over the surface of the folder deferentially for a few moments before flipping it open and gently placing the new printout on top of the existing contents. 

Today's addition brought the total to fifteen. 

Fifteen lives snuffed out, methodically, brutally. 

Fifteen cases of mistaken identity.

How many more would there be, before it was over?

A heavy 'thud' from behind him had him twisting around faster than he should have. He grabbed the corner of the desk against a flare of pain, barely swallowing a curse when he saw the cause of the disruption--Bear, dragging the soft-sided briefcase containing Professor Whistler's students' assignments, out of the subway car, and into his dog bed. 

"Bear, no!" His admonishment fell on deaf ears. The Malinois gave the bag a hard shake, delightedly snapping at the papers as they spilled forth. Harold hurried toward him; anxious to save the already graded coursework. _"Foei! Nee!"_ he demanded. Bear flopped down in his bed, tongue lolling to the side, looking not at all repentant as Harold loomed over him.

_"Slechte Hond,"_ Harold scolded, but his heart wasn't in it. His research had confirmed that dogs got into mischief when they were bored and anxious. The Malinois was used to a much more active lifestyle than he was getting as a professor's companion, leaving him with pent-up energy to burn. And he was undoubtedly picking up the undercurrents of tension generated by their current situation. HIs appetite was off, too, although the cause of _that_ was a slightly different issue, albeit related.

Harold eased himself down to one knee and gathered up the papers, grimacing at the damage just a few moments of enthusiastic chomping had done. Bear whined low in his throat and nudged him with his muzzle, the canine equivalent of apology rendered. 

Harold shook his head at the dog's antics, more amused than angry. With his free hand he reached out and drew a gentle caress across Bear's head. "I know you're unhappy with your food selection these days, but I guarantee my students' papers are even less appetizing." 

With a sigh, he pushed to his feet. "If it's any consolation, I miss some of my old favorites, too, but we can't take the risk. Maybe we'll splurge on something more enticing tonight. I have a paycheck coming at the end of the week. How does a steak sound?" Bear sat up on his haunches and gave a happy bark. 

Harold rewarded him with another pat. Focused on straightening the crumpled, soggy papers, he almost missed the warning blur of motion as the dog lunged to his feet and slid past him. A quick side-step and unsteady half turn kept him from being bowled over. Alarm shifted to pleasure when he saw the dog's target--Reese. 

Collar of his long coat still turned up against the back of his neck, hair slightly wind-ruffled, John was standing next to the desk, Bear dancing around his feet, tail wagging furiously.

Delighted with his lover's unexpected appearance, Harold took two steps forward, only to halt abruptly when he realized what John held in his hands. 

The folder. He'd left it open on the desk.

The tense set of the ex-op's shoulders, and the terse low command that had Bear dropping motionless to the floor, said everything necessary regarding his partner's reaction to the contents. 

Harold's breath caught in his throat as John raised his head, pinning him with an icy blue stare.

"Something you want to tell me, Finch?"

The low half-growl that sent shivers through Harold when they were making love, now froze the blood in his veins. For the life of him, he couldn't form a word in reply. 

Reese paged through the folder, flipping through the damning sheets, dropping the printouts one by one onto the desk. "Ex-military...merc for hire...body guard...explosives expert...assassin. Thinking of recruiting some new assets? These are certainly the cream of the crop."

John's expression was unreadable, but it was impossible to miss the biting sarcasm and hurt-spawned anger in his tone. Harold drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. This wasn't how he'd planned to broach the subject, but it was upon him and he would deal with it. 

"Hardly, Mr. Reese. All of those gentlemen are dead."

His response elicited a lifted eyebrow, a faint tilt to the head, and a slight easing of those wide shoulders. "If they're dead, they're not potential Numbers," John rasped, quickly eliminating one possible reason for Harold's morbid collection. 

"No, they're not." Harold pushed himself into motion. Crossing to the desk he set the stack of his students' papers down, fiddling with them for a moment as he sorted out a way to begin.

"In the first few days after Samaritan came on line, it targeted more than a thousand people. Some were killed outright, like the remaining members of Vigilance. Others were detained for questioning... supposedly, although no one collected in that manner was ever heard from again. The rest simply disappeared."

He glanced up to meet John's impatient, still wounded gaze. "A small percentage of the total were individuals the Machine would have identified as Relevant Numbers, and tasked Miss Shaw's old employers to investigate. Another portion were people the Machine would have perhaps ultimately sent our way...criminals with a propensity for violence toward the innocent, those on the cusp of committing murder."

"And the rest?" Reese prodded tersely.

"It's unclear what their supposed crimes were, and we'll probably never know. I imagine they fit some category of 'deviance' that Samaritan's programming deemed a threat. Privacy advocates, conspiracy theorists, anyone who posted what might qualify as a 'seditious' diatribe, or whose belief system didn't quite mesh with a narrow interpretation of 'the common good'.

"Since the initial strike, the deaths and disappearances have continued, but it's been a much subtler purging--select members of the media, scientists, technicians, hackers--"

"Anyone Greer didn't want standing in the way of his AI."

"It would be erroneous to consider Samaritan 'his', John. Greer intended to bring Samaritan on line, not to control it, but to elevate it to a position of control over humanity. He may indeed be acting as its 'admin', but for all intents and purposes it's an empty title. It may afford him some influence in certain areas, but I fear Samaritan is the entity in charge."

Reese frowned and gestured to the printouts littering the desk. "Were _they_ eliminated in the first round?"

"No, their deaths have occurred more recently."

"If Samaritan's planning world domination, it would make more sense to recruit men like this than eliminate them."

Harold shifted his weight uneasily. "That's true. However I believe Samaritan had a definite purpose in hunting down these particular individuals."

John shot him a sharp look. 

"All of these men are ex-military," Harold continued. "All are well trained in a variety of forms of hand-to-hand combat. All have expertise with a diverse range of weapons. All of them fit the same physical profile--"

There was a growing horror in John's eyes, but Harold plowed ahead, determined to be done with it. 

"--just over six feet tall with dark graying hair, blue eyes. Any one of them could be mistaken for your twin brother, John. If you had one," Harold finished dully. He edged back a step, legs shaking, gratefully sinking onto the tall stool at the desk.

Reese stood statue-still for a half-dozen heartbeats, his expression a blank mask. Then suddenly he was fluid motion--hand cutting through the air to sweep the papers off the desk; spinning to stalk away, the tails of his long coat flaring like a predator's ebony wings. A non-stop string of invective filled the air, the tiled arched roof over their heads echoing his rage. As if they had substance, each caustic word reverberated back to hammer at Harold like ricocheting gunfire. 

The violence seething within the enclosed space jolted Bear from his training; the Malinois came up on all fours, the hairs on his back bristling, his growl a bass counterpoint to John's curses--sensing danger, but finding no identifiable source to attack. Harold flashed the hand-signal for 'down', and Bear subsided, but the tension didn't leave his body, and his gaze never left his other master.

Long strides carried Reese across the room in seconds, fist slamming into one of the metal lockers. He leaned into the barrier, hands splayed against the metal, shoulders heaving up and down. "You should have told me," he snarled, throwing the accusation like a curse over his shoulder.

Harold closed his eyes for a moment against the pain in his partner's voice. That John would feel responsible for those deaths was a given. As was his railing against the knowledge that those losses were a _fait accompli._ Harold wished desperately he had an alternative to offer, but all he had was the truth.

Harold eased off the stool and took a few steps toward him. "To what end, John?" he asked quietly. "There's nothing we can do."

Reese spun and stalked back toward him. "There has to be _something._ "

Harold stood his ground, spreading his hands wide. "We can't change who and what we _are_ , John. Samaritan is using every bit of data it has gathered on us to hunt us down. Searching for us using our physical characteristics and backgrounds is just _one_ of its methods. 

"The tampering Miss Groves and the others did to Samaritan's servers creates a blind spot, tricks it into 'seeing' us as Harold Whistler, Sameen Gray, and John Riley, but a new name doesn't remove my limp, or alter the fact that I have a fused spine. It doesn't make Miss Shaw six inches taller, doesn't give you brown eyes instead of blue. It doesn't change the fact that I know more than a little something about computers, or that the two of you have a military background.

"We've all been face to face with Greer. He was MI6. An ex-spy. Someone just as skilled perhaps as you in noting every detail about their opponent. Do think for one moment that he hasn't fed a detailed description of each one of us to Samaritan? Even if it can't pinpoint us, it has enough unique data markers to begin narrowing the field."

John ground to a stop an arm's length away, practically vibrating with tension, eyes dark and hooded, cheeks rippling as he clenched his jaw. He jerked his head toward the scattered printouts. "You call that _narrowing the field?_ Those men are _dead_ because of me, Finch." 

"No. They're dead because Greer's disillusionment drove him to bring Samaritan online without constraints. An AI has unprecedented capabilities, and along with those come unprecedented consequences. The deadliest hunter in the urban jungle isn't man. It's an AI with an unfinished mission. An AI is born with objectives. Its own survival is paramount. Beyond that, it relies on the imperatives hierarchy established in its core codes to determine the relative importance of command directives. 

"One of the first tasks Samaritan registered was the order to eliminate us. It hasn't succeeded, but an AI is _infinitely_ patient. Samaritan will keep hunting until we're dead, and it doesn't _care_ if it takes out innocents along the way. Accomplishing its mission objective is all that matters."

Harold dragged in a breath, and took another step forward, closing the distance between them. "The deaths of those men are _not_ your fault, John," he murmured, grasping his partner's arm lightly. "Nor is Sameen to blame for the seven women Samaritan had killed because they could have been _her._ " 

Reese flinched under his grip, but Harold didn't waver. "We can't change the fact that there are others out there that might be targeted because Samaritan is looking for us. All we can do is keep fighting back. That's all we've _ever_ been able to do."

He dropped his hand and started to turn away, but Reese caught him by the elbow. _"Harold."_

John's anger was gone, vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with heart-wrenching concern and a burning unspoken question in soft blue eyes that Harold didn't want to answer. 

He didn't want to think about the hackers whose tags had disappeared from even the DarkNet, or the fatal 'accidents' and unsolved murders that had claimed over a dozen men with damaged spines and uneven gaits. 

He didn't want to _think,_ period. 

He pulled away without answering, bending awkwardly to pick up the scattered papers. John's hand on his arm stopped him, gently urging Harold to his feet and into his arms. A huff of breath, and Harold wrapped his arms around Reese and hung on tight. He lost himself in the warm embrace, in the steady _tha-thump_ of the strong heart under his ear. 

John's hands slid up to cup his face, tipping Harold's head back a fraction before leaning in to seal their lips together. The kiss was gentle--apology and welcome and understanding and forever promised without words. 

When it ended, Reese stared down at him searchingly, eyes narrowing slightly. "There's more, isn't there."

Harold hesitated, then nodded.

"Does Shaw know?"

"She has...the big picture," Harold admitted. "Discovered rather inadvertently. I hadn't planned..." He grimaced. "Keeping my own counsel is a hard habit to break, John. I would have spoken of all of this earlier, if I'd thought--"

Reese silenced his apology with another kiss. 

"I knew there was something preying on that brilliant mind of yours," John murmured when they eased apart. "It's past time we were all on the same page."

Reese steered them toward the long wooden bench, issuing a quiet command to the Malinois. Bear rose to his feet and followed, edging close to rest his head on John's leg when they were seated. 

A little dazed by where their emotional roller coaster ride had brought them, Harold's thoughts tumbled in his head. "I'll warn you, it seems a bit incredulous, but--"

John's hand closed over his, linking their fingers together. Where he had been rage-driven impatience earlier, he was rock steady now. "One step at a time, Harold. Start with why Bear doesn't like his dog food. And why you're no longer drinking Sencha green tea."

Harold twitched an eyebrow upward. John had noticed. Of course, he had.

He took a deep breath. "Very well. It's about the Library. And what we left behind..."

******************  
Acknowledgements:

Dialogue and references from various POI episodes, no copyright infringement intended.

Title: "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."--William Shakespeare, "Romeo and Juliet".

"Foei! Nee!"- (Dutch) "No. Don't do that."

"Slechte Hond" - (Dutch) Bad dog

_fait accompli_ \-- a thing that has already happened or been decided before those affected hear about it, leaving them with no option but to accept.


	3. Deductive Reasoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if concern over what they'd left behind in the Library wasn't enough, a new threat raises its head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in this chapter for language--no more cursing, however, than most pre-teens are capable of on a daily basis. Rated Gen.

Lionel leaned to the right to check the entryway of the bar, shifting back into the booth almost instantly to avoid being clipped by the edge of a food-laden tray carried by the surly waitress serving his section of the establishment. She hadn't been pleased when he had commandeered a booth that seated four people during the dinner rush. His explanation that he was 'waiting for a friend' hadn't improved her attitude much. 

He checked his watch. Finch was late. He took a small sip of his drink, gaze wandering over the bar's interior, his cop's suspicious eye automatically cataloging the surroundings and patrons. 

The place wasn't a dive, even if the neighborhood bordered on sketchy. The bench seat beneath his butt could use a little more padding, and the booth's wooden tabletop was scarred with random scratches and gouges. Overall, the place was a little battered around the edges, but clean and pretty well lit. The group sidled up to the bar and seated in other booths like his, were a mixture of office workers and a few blue-collar types on the verge of middle-class status. 

More his kind of place than the billionaire's. Possibly why Finch had chosen it for their meeting.

Fusco risked another peek at the front door, rewarded this time with the sight of Finch stepping inside. The older man's gaze swept the bar's depths, a quick nod acknowledging the detective's presence when they made eye contact. He headed toward Lionel, limp more pronounced than Fusco remembered, computer bag hanging over one shoulder, lightweight overcoat hung over a crooked arm.

"My apologies for the late arrival, Detective." Finch dropped his bag and coat on the opposite bench seat of the booth and slid in awkwardly. "I was detained in a faculty meeting."

"No problem, Professor. Huh. Seems funny calling you that. I mean, I used to call you that all the time, but--" Lionel realized he was babbling. "Never mind. You want a drink?"

Finch's gaze dropped to the glass in Lionel's hand. "Ginger ale?" he asked gently.

"Yeah. Still on the wagon." 

"Congratulations, Detective."

The compliment was genuine. "Thanks." Lionel scanned the bar area. The waitress looked like she was about to head their way. Finch had always been prickly about being seen in public. That probably hadn't changed. "Do you want me to go grab you something from the bar?" he offered.

Finch looked at him quizzically, then shook his head. "No, Detective. That's not necessary. We are safely out of the storm here." 

Fusco's gaze slid to the windows at the front of the bar. It wasn't raining. Then he remembered whom he was sitting with. The Master of Cryptic. Oddly enough, it was reassuring that aspect of the man hadn't changed. 

"That why you chose this place to meet? Doesn't seem like it's up to your normal standards." 

"Present circumstances have required a few...lifestyle changes." 

In a seemingly unconscious gesture, the older man slid one finger between his throat and the fabric of his dress shirt, tugging at the collar. As though it didn't fit quite right. Lionel was used to that feeling--he was a quarter-inch off the standard neck size, so store-bought shirts either gaped a bit when buttoned to the top, or threatened to strangle him. Finch, with his history of perfect-fit attire, was obviously not accustomed to the same irritating sensation. 

On closer scrutiny, it was clear it wasn't just Finch's shirt that was 'off-the-rack'. His sport coat lacked not only a precisely tailored fit, but it was a dull gray. No pinstripes or funky subtle patterns in the fabric. His tie was almost a match to the jacket in color, and definitely not silk. 

He looked...well, he looked 'average', which for Finch was a long step down from his normal peacock plumage.

The waitress popped over, placing a glass of water in front of Finch, and eying him expectantly. He nodded toward Lionel's glass. "I'll have the same." 

"Ginger ale. That's all?" she asked flatly.

"Yes, thank you," Finch replied with perfect politeness. 

She stalked off, muttering something that sounded like "damn cheap-skates".

"One should never judge strictly by appearances, or in this case, the size of the order," Finch said dryly. "There was a 50-50 chance one of us would feel guilty enough for taking up one of her booths during prime serving time, that we would have left a sizable tip."

Lionel ducked his head to hide a grin as she returned with Finch's order. She left with a glare tossed at both of them.

"As it is, she will remain irritated enough to leave us in peace." Satisfaction for a hand well played glittered in the older man's eyes as he raised the glass of ginger ale in a subtle salute.

Fusco mimicked the gesture. He took a drink from his own glass, swallowing wrong and almost spitting the liquid back out when Finch's face screwed into an expression best described as comically-horrified at _his_ first sip.

"It's an acquired taste," Lionel said kindly. 

Finch cleared his throat and set the ginger ale down. "Apparently," he muttered, reaching for the water instead. 

While Finch drank his way through a good inch of the water, Lionel studied his companion. He had spoken to the older man a few times on the phone since Reese had emerged from the woodwork masquerading as a cop and subsequently becoming his official partner on the force, so Lionel had known he was alive and operating under his own fresh cover. This was the first time he'd been face to face with him, however, since they'd traveled to Washington, D.C., nearly two and a half months earlier.

Finch had looked worn then, fighting a battle with insomnia according to Coco Puffs. He didn't look much better now, the bags under his eyes puffier than Lionel remembered. Was his face thinner, or was it the heavier framed glasses? His right hand tremored, shaking the water glass slightly when he set it down--was that new? 

"I may have selected the location, Detective," Finch prodded gently. "However, you're the one that requested the meeting."

"Oh. Yeah. Right." Lionel shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable spot on the thinly padded bench. "It's about my partner."

And there it was, the razor sharp gaze that was classic Finch. The one that made you feel like a bug pinned to a dissection frame. 

"He's got IA breathing down his neck, and the Captain's spitting fire not too far behind."

"I'm aware," Finch said stiffly.

Lionel felt some of the tension ease in his shoulders. He hadn't been sure how much of the trouble at the station Reese had shared with his partner in crime. "They've got him going to mandatory psych counseling."

"Dr. Campbell appears to have the ideal background to counsel police officers on the stress of their jobs."

"He's skipped a couple of appointments."

Finch twitched, just a fraction. As a 'tell' it was hard to read. Lionel chose to interpret it as 'Finch had known, maybe wasn't happy about it, but hadn't been able to convince his obstinate partner to play nice.' 

"He doesn't do the therapy, he'll be out of a job."

Finch looked away. Reached for his water. The tremor in his right hand was more pronounced than it had been moments earlier. He took a few sips before setting the glass down, voice containing an uneven edge when he spoke. "It's...imperative that John retain his position. Would you have any suggestions on how we might convince him to attend his sessions?" 

"I could haul him out back of the station and beat the crap out of him." 

Lionel had said it to lighten the mood, but it actually wasn't a bad idea. He hadn't come out of their last brawl too badly back in Colorado. Of course Reese had been about three sheets to the wind at the time, which might have made the difference. 

"I would prefer a less violent alternative, Detective." 

Fusco spun his glass idly. "No cop likes having his head 'shrunk'." He grimaced. "Thing is, even if the sessions weren't mandatory, I think he needs to do 'em." 

"John isn't really the type to open up to a stranger."

"Too much baggage. Too many secrets." Lionel nodded. "I get that."

"Yet you think he would benefit from, as you say, having his head 'shrunk'." Finch tilted his head, studying him intently. "I understand he's been installed at Detective Carter's old desk. That must be...difficult for you."

"It was at first," Lionel admitted. "She was a great cop. A good partner. He's..."

"Not Joss."

"Nah, that's not it. Every partner's different. Some you click with right away, others...you want to kick their ass as far away from you as possible."

"And John falls where on that spectrum?" Finch asked quietly.

"He was on the 'ass-kicking' end until I gave him hell about not respecting the 'job'. Now...he's trying. I think--" Lionel shook his head. "Was I pissed that he was playacting at first? Yeah. But in all seriousness, I think if he put the effort in, he'd make a good cop. For real."

Finch stared at him for a full minute, expression unreadable, then nodded. "I'll do my best to persuade John to keep his therapy appointments."

Lionel breathed out a sigh of relief. "Good. 'Cuz we got somethin' else coming down the pike."

Reaching into his inside suit coat pocket, he extracted the copy of the departmental memo he'd received earlier that day. He slid the letter-folded sheet across the tabletop.

Finch eyed the innocuous-looking paper suspiciously before picking it up. He unfolded the sheet, angling it so that only he could read it, sharp gaze scanning top to bottom quickly. A casual observer wouldn't have picked up on any reaction to the content. 

Lionel had been a detective far too long to be classified as a casual observer. 

Finch was rattled.

With good cause.

Finch cleared his throat quietly, fingers tightening on the paper, crumpling one edge slightly. "Who else received this?" 

"Everyone in the department. Support staff through administration. City-wide."

The older man's studied reaction was a slightly lifted eyebrow. His gaze was still fixed on the memo. "Has John seen it yet?"

"Yeah. He stewed at his desk for a while after it came through, then took off without a word. Looked about as happy about it as you do."

_"In accordance with a federal directive to update the National Law Enforcement Data Base, all personnel will be scheduled for in-house appointments to update their personal identification information within the next thirty days,"_ Finch murmured, reading the crux of the memo aloud. He finally looked up at Lionel. "Not standard procedure I take it."

Lionel shook his head. "The administration negotiated a clause in our contract that requires all personnel to have fingerprints, blood and DNA samples on file a couple years back. Forensics actually pushed for the Union to agree to it. They can eliminate first responder evidence that might accidentally contaminate a crime scene faster if they've got it on file. New hires usually get notified of the requirement at the end of their 90-day probationary period."

"Which John has not yet reached," Finch muttered. "Which is why his true identity hasn't yet been an issue."

"Yeah. Usually, you can go to your own doctor, and have them take and run the samples. When HR went down and revealed upper ranks and administration were involved, there was a lot mistrust in the ranks. Guys came forward and claimed they'd been persuaded to look the other way on some stuff, because they'd been threatened their next mandatory drug test would show positives for illegal substances. The Union pushed for the right of each member to choose their own testing lab, and got it tacked on to all the existing contracts." 

Fusco nodded toward the memo. "The way _this_ reads, everything's gonna be done in-house. I talked to a buddy of mine in the Union. They're pretty steamed, but this is a federal directive. It over-rides a local contract."

"And it's mandatory for everyone. Not just new hires." Finch folded the paper precisely and laid it on the table between them. "Is there any way," he asked cautiously, "to determine whether this directive has indeed been dispatched nation-wide?"

"I had emails from cops I know in a dozen different states in my in-box within an hour of receiving the memo," Lionel replied grimly. 

Finch took a long drink of water and set the glass aside. "Well, while I applaud the efficiency up-to-date information will provide to Forensic departments all over the country, this does present a...dilemma. Thank you, Detective, for bringing it to my attention." 

Lionel blinked in surprise as Finch gathered his bag and coat. "Hey, wait a minute." Half out of the booth, the older man paused, eying him warily. "I didn't bring this to you just to give you a head's up. This affects my partner, and you. I can help."

"While I appreciate your efforts on our behalf, and on behalf of our...clients, Detective--and you _have_ been of great assistance--if you involve yourself with subverting this dictate," Finch shook his head warningly, "you'll be venturing into dangerously deeper waters."

"Filled with two-legged, man-eating sharks, I know. Just hear me out."

Reluctance evident, Finch resettled himself on the padded seat. 

"I know Carter used to push you guys for answers," Fusco said softly. "She wanted to know how you got your information, where it came from. She was always the one ready to take point, push the envelope, tread where no man, excuse me, _person_ should. Me, I've always been more of a follower. A grunt."

Finch half-raised a hand. "Please don't demean yourself, or your capabilities, Lionel."

"It's the truth. I've always been better as the guy you point toward trouble. An army needs more foot soldiers than generals." He shrugged. "Point is, I've never asked, because it ain't important. However it happens, it works. At least nine times out of ten, and that's better odds than most bookies offer. People that need saving get saved, and the bad guys end up behind bars, or six feet under. I got a vested interest in keeping that going, and if I gotta break some rules, so be it. Whatever wins the game."

"The game, as you call it, has become infinitely more complex," Finch countered quietly. "And potentially unwinnable. There are new players. With considerable resources and reach. And power in high places."

"I figured. Still, I've been puttin' a lot of work into my new partner to get him up to speed. I don't want to start over." He leaned in, resting his elbows on the table. "I know you pulled off a fast one when he was in Rikers. I swear I heard Donnelly pitching a fit all the way down in the Eighth, about fingerprints and DNA from the Man-in-the-Suit that didn't match any of his suspects. You swapped 'em out somehow. We could do that again. You get what we need, I'll make the switch."

"That gambit wasn't entirely, successful," Finch admitted. "If not for Agent Donnelly's unfortunate death and another man's remains being mistakenly cataloged as the Man-in-the-Suit, that sleight of hand might not have withstood scrutiny. The eyes examining a new subterfuge are...more discerning."

"Still, it's worth a shot, right?"

"It's worth considering," Finch acknowledged, clearly uneasy. "We must do something. Whatever we do, it cannot put an innocent at risk. John won't accept that, and neither will I." 

"What are you doing about the other evidence that's floatin' around?"

Finch froze. "To what are you referring, Detective?"

Fusco was willing to bet that stilted question revealed a whole lot more than Finch had intended.

"Right after the blackout, about the same time you and Mr. Wonderful disappeared, things got pretty intense. Hell, it was a mess. A uniformed cop escorting a prisoner got gunned down practically under my nose, right in the Eighth. A lot of cops were already riled because of the brothers in blue that died in the Post Office bombing, so when information started pouring in on suspected terrorists in the City, it was like the Wild West all over again. It didn't help that the directives that came down the chain of command were essentially 'kill' orders. Shoot first and ask questions later. Except even when the bodies started piling up in the morgue, turns out no one was asking questions."

Finch was so still Lionel would have sworn he'd stopped breathing. 

"Swat got rolled out on a whole bunch of supposed terrorist hideouts. A lot of those came up empty, but there was some buzz about a couple of them, before the Feds stepped in, slapped a gag order on everyone involved, and confiscated all the files and evidence Forensics had collected.

"When you guys didn't resurface, I did a little digging." Finch's eyes widened abruptly. "On the sly," Lionel assured him. "Cops get pissed-off, and bitch and moan when the Feds step in and claim jurisdiction, but we've got nothin' on a forensic scientist who's had evidence pulled out of his hands. Especially when the guys in the ugly suits are flashing IDs from alphabet-soup agencies no one's ever heard of.

"A bunch of the techs like to stop in for a drink after shift at a bar down on 31st. A little alcohol tends to loosen the tongue, even if it's tied up in red tape. They were already primed, so it didn't take much to get them talking. Seems one of the places SWAT hit, was of particular interest to the Feds. Word is, they boxed up a truckload of stuff from that location alone."

Finch was good, Fusco would give him that. He'd barely shown any reaction to the information, but his gaze was now fixed on his water glass, one finger repetitively tracing a short arc of the rim, and there was a decided lack of conviction in his carefully constructed response. 

"From my limited understanding of crime scene protocol, that doesn't seem unusual. I would presume that it's standard procedure to scrutinize everything in a suspect's dwelling or base of operations. I would hazard a guess that a large percentage of what's collected is essentially worthless in furthering an investigation, however."

"Unless the suspect was forced to leave in a hurry," Lionel countered. 

Pale blue flashed for a split second before disappearing behind the heavy rims of the older man's glasses. Finch raised the water glass to his lips and took a sip before carefully placing it back on the table. "Yes...I can see where that _could_ affect the value of the evidence left behind."

Very smooth indeed, but it was time to take off the gloves. "So what do we have to worry about them having found, that could lead them back to you and the rest of the crew?" 

Finch lifted his head, lips pressed to a hard white line, gaze sharp as a laser; stubbornly silent, simmering with anger...and a touch of fear. 

"Give me some credit, Professor," Lionel urged. "I figured you had a set-up somewhere. All that fancy computer stuff you do couldn't be managed from the back seat of a car. You'd need someplace secure. Somewhere you, and Wonder Boy, and Miss Sharp Knives could come and go from, without anybody being the wiser. You'd need power, probably from a generator since tapping into the City's electrical grid would leave a traceable connection. Given the scrapes your partner gets into, I'm betting you had a hefty stash of medical supplies on hand. It's also probably where he kept a good part of that arsenal he was always flashing around. 

"You didn't keep regular business hours, so I assume you had more than a few basic necessities on hand...something to munch on, that tea you like or some top-shelf whiskey, dog food for the beast...a couple changes of clothes for all of you, and at least a cot to crash on--unless you enjoy sleeping with your face mashed into the keyboard." 

Finch huffed a soft, almost amused snort, suggesting that scenario had played out more than once. He stared down at the table top, flattening his hands on the scarred surface, thumbs hooked under the edge. A hint of white in the knuckle joints revealed the strain of keeping fingers that could blur across a keyboard or phone touch pad, motionless. 

It was a little unnerving to see the man's normally impervious facade with even that small a crack. Fusco took a gulp of his ginger ale, almost wishing it was 80 proof liquor instead. 

It occurred to Lionel, in a belated rush of enlightenment that had the short hairs at the nape of his neck quivering in warning, that he was fortunate it was Finch sitting across from him. Had it been Reese, he'd probably be staring into the business end of a pistol after his little display of deductive reasoning. 

As it was, Finch was undoubtedly itching for _his_ weapon of choice. The man was as protective of their secret enterprise and his partners, especially Reese, as a momma bear protecting her territory and her cubs. And his electronic claws could shred even deeper than an infuriated Grizzly, when cornered. Having seen Finch in action, Fusco had no doubt that a few month's earlier, the computer genius could have wiped out not only any evidence of _their_ existence from the face of the earth with a protective flurry of keystrokes, but also left a too-observant detective awash in a digitally contrived bleed-out. 

Finch had always been an enigmatic figure, operating under multiple aliases with ease. A billionaire with more money to burn than Fusco would see in a hundred lifetimes, and with an elusive history that spidered out into webs of tangled threads and red-herring deadfalls. Underneath those bespoke suits, he'd always struck Lionel as a somewhat paranoid geek, but a dangerously capable and confident one. Paired up with Reese, who personified the 'I'll-do-whatever-the-hell-I-want-and-fuck-the-consequences' approach to perp management, they seemed an unstoppable team. 

Whatever had driven them into hiding, and had them popping up under unexpected new identities, however, had to be shit-scary. Anything that had Finch rattled, and Reese at least _trying_ to learn to color within the lines, was WAY above a detective's pay grade. 

But he was sticking his nose into it anyway. He'd been black-mailed into playing errand boy in the beginning, and there had been times, especially during the long process of taking down HR, that he'd felt like a chunk of meat they were dangling in front of a pack of rabid dogs. But ultimately, they'd protected him, and helped him slough off the crap he'd accumulated as a dirty cop. Shaw had saved his son's life. That alone was a debt he'd never be able to repay. The innocent lives they'd saved, the scum they'd taken down...he'd had a part in that, and it felt good. 

He'd missed that feeling when they'd gone silent. He'd seen the result of their absence--deaths that Finch and Company might have prevented, given their mysterious knack of somehow knowing in advance that bad shit was about to go down. Their particular brand of vigilantism was good for the City. 

If he had to bare his neck on the chopping block to make sure they could continue those efforts, well, all he could hope for was that the blade, when it fell, was sharp. 

"Tell me, Detective," Finch finally queried quietly, "if you were to process such a scene, what evidence would prove most critical in tracking down its prior occupants? I ask, strictly for the purpose of broadening my understanding of your work, of course." He glanced up, bland expression a convincing mask, admitting to nothing except academic curiosity. 

"Fingerprints. Anything that would give me DNA evidence." 

"From what I've read, DNA extraction and type matching has certainly come a long way," Finch offered, tone casual, as if the knowledge were of little import. "I found it extremely interesting that the human body loses something approaching 40,000 dead skin cells each minute. It's a little unsettling to realize we're leaving such a unique trail in our wake without even realizing it. I assume even old blood stains provide a great source of identifying information as well." 

Lionel nodded grimly. "Hair samples, too. Human or animal. Even without the follicle attached, the FBI's lab at Quantico can generate a pretty accurate picture of the person or creature whose head or body it came off of. Kind of like reading the life history of a tree by examining the rings. Fiber evidence can be almost as good. Generic denim is pretty useless, but high-end wool, cashmere, silk...those aren't as common, and you can put together some pretty good leads without a lot of effort." 

Finch didn't move, yet for a suspended moment in time, Lionel had the impression he was disappearing before his eyes--withdrawing, folding inward like an imploding star leaking energy out into the cosmos. There was a bleak emptiness in his eyes the detective had only seen in men facing certain death, and he was sheet-white pale. 

Fusco reached toward him, stopping just shy of making contact. "Hey, you okay?" 

A hard swallow. A blink. Then suddenly the calm facade Finch had worn earlier fell back into place, cloaking any sign of distress. "Yes. Of course," he said quietly. He shifted on the bench, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. Extracting a twenty-dollar bill, he dropped it on the table. "I appreciate your time, Detective. You've given me much to consider." He reached forward to tap the folded memo. "I will...endeavor to find a solution." 

As abruptly as that, their meeting was over. Finch gathered his belongings, slid from the booth and headed toward the door--to all appearances, just an average guy heading home after a long day, the limp perhaps a result of stiffness due to too many hours sitting at a desk. 

If his shoulders slumped a step outside the door? Lionel thought he was the only one watching closely enough to notice. 

Lionel stared down into his drink, then shoved the glass aside. He pulled out his cell and tapped one of the numbers in his speed dial. "It's me," he stated when the call went through. "We need to talk, partner." 

***************** 

Acknowledgements: 

Dialogue and references from various POI episodes, no copyright infringement intended. 

*************** 


	4. The Virtues of Deceit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold Finch has always excelled at playing the long game, putting random-seeming pieces on the playing field to distract or confuse, and at the same time utilizing the most unexpected means and strategies to craft the eventual outcomes that he desires. 
> 
> That skill offers a bizarre possible solution for protecting John's identity as Detective Riley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter/story rated mature for M/M established relationship between John and Harold. Not explicit. 
> 
> Not quite a stand-alone. Reading the preceding chapter/story, "Deductive Reasoning' will be required. to make sense of things. 
> 
> Additional notes from the author at the end of the chapter. (spoilers)

There were places Harold Finch had favored visiting when even the beauty and constancy of numbers, patterns, and coding refused to provide the solace and answers he sought. 

Quiet spaces he would retreat to when his mind was troubled, or when the puzzle twisting in his head was best solved by letting his thoughts wander the maze unchecked, or when open sky was the only thing that could hold an inner vision that strained to break free and fill the cosmos.

Places where 'beginnings' were often born. 

Few of those locations were safe to visit now with Samaritan's eyes peering around every corner, taking note of those whose preference was for solitude and independent thought. Herd animals were easier to manage.

Still, a few of those places remained.

Reese settled next to him on the bench, close enough that he could feel each breath Harold took by the gentle repetitive rub of their shoulders on each inhale and exhale. 

The vast bridge towered overhead, spanning the endlessly flowing river, the multi-hued lights of the City casting splashes of fiery brilliance against an ebony-velvet sky.

John took a deep breath, released it slowly, and sank into the peace of the moment.

The world and its troubles fell away for a while.

"John." 

Harold's voice barely disturbed the quiet, oozing the mellow smoothness of someone drifting out of a dream. Reese took his hand, wrapping warmth around cool fingers. Finch had been sitting there for a while. Probably since shortly after he'd parted from Fusco.

John turned his head to look at him. "Nice view."

Harold kept his gaze on the water, but hummed in acknowledgement and gave John's hand a firm squeeze.

Silence fell between them again. Conversation would come, but John would let Finch set the pace. Pushing, he had learned, yielded poorer results. 

"I take it you spoke with Detective Fusco," Harold murmured finally. 

"You rattled him."

Finch twisted slightly to eye John incredulously. "I rattled _him?_ "

Reese shrugged. "Lionel's the sensitive sort."

"He's more perceptive than you give him credit for." Harold's gaze shifted outward again, sweeping the skyline. "Than _I've_ given him credit for." 

"From the way he talked, I thought I'd find you falling apart at the seams." 

Harold plucked at the fabric of his trousers with the fingers of his free hand, face wrinkling with distaste. "Well, it is a cheap suit." 

Reese nudged him with his shoulder. Light-hearted or sardonic banter was a trademark of their relationship, but John needed a straight answer this time. 

"I'm all right, John," Finch assured him.

He wasn't. There was no possible way _any_ of them fit that qualifier.

'All right' was how things used to be. Not perfect. Dangerous, certainly. But before Samaritan they'd had an edge, and a relative idea as to where the sniper painting a target on their backs was positioned. Then their adversaries were simply average people--victims sometimes as deadly as the perps--mob bosses, dirty cops, and agents from covert government agencies; not an AI with nearly god-like powers. 

'All right' was before Harold's little bombshell reminder that what they had left behind in the Library posed a serious threat to their safety. 

'All right' had been _way_ before that damn memo had landed on his desk. Reese's gut had been churning acid since he'd read it. 

Was it a legitimate directive? Or an intricately designed plan to put a noose around their necks? Like so many of Samaritan's plots, there was an upside--Forensic departments across the country would be cheering. Theoretically, crimes would be solved faster. The quicker criminals were brought to justice, the quicker victims could begin to live their lives again. Logistically it made communications between law enforcement nationwide, faster and more efficient. 

The downside was that John's cover would be blown the nano-second his fingerprints hit the system. Harold had done his best to purge the electronic records of the telltales he had left littering his trail, both during his time in the CIA and while working the Numbers, but there had been no time to scrub the Library of incriminating evidence.

Fusco _had_ been rattled, but more by Harold's reaction to the directive, than the danger inherent in trying to get around it. Lionel had rarely, if ever, seen a crack in Finch's 'there's-nothing-that-can't-be-fixed' facade. Finding Harold here, in one of his 'thinking' spots, revealed just how much the memo had disturbed and worried his partner.

Reese tried to infuse some confidence into his tone. "We've got thirty days. We'll figure something out. Maybe your Machine's already planned for this kind of situation." 

Harold didn't bother to comment on the possible extent of his creation's omniscience. He cut right to the chase. 

"If I recall the verbiage of the memo correctly, it specified that 'all personnel will be scheduled for in-house appointments _within_ the next thirty days.' For all we know, you could be slated among the first...donors." Finch shook his head. "I suppose we should be grateful we've received any warning. That said, given the present circumstances, more time would not work in our favor. _Time_ is not what we need." He studied their clasped hands. "I _might,_ " he said hesitantly, "have a possible solution. Or at least a portion of a solution. It is _not_ without its risks."

John shifted a quarter-turn on the bench, their knees touching now instead of shoulders. "Go ahead."

"Our Detective suggested that we attempt a similar strategy to that which we employed when you were incarcerated in Rikers."

"Which was?" Beyond the furtive exchanges over the burner phone Finch had miraculously managed to have planted in his cell, Reese had been out of the loop during that fiasco. Afterwards he'd been too grateful that both he and Harold had survived Kara Stanton's brand of insanity, to question exactly what had transpired while he'd been locked away. He still woke occasionally drenched in sweat, reaching for his lover to confirm Finch hadn't been blown to pieces with him. 

"Essentially we substituted another man's samples for the ones which were on file for the Man-in-the-Suit."

"What did you do about fingerprint records?"

"Those that weren't physically replaced, were digitally altered, or the files wiped clean. Not a drastically difficult procedure then. Now, however, it would be significantly more complicated to achieve."

John blew out a breath. "Right now, this directive only puts _me_ on the hot seat. You start hacking into data bases that Samaritan's linked into..." He shook his head. "No."

"John--"

Reese released Harold's hand and shoved himself to his feet. He paced a few steps away; stared at the water. _'Not without its risks.'_ The man was certifiable. It wasn't risk, it was pure recklessness. And he loved Harold for offering, but saving his ass wasn't worth putting his partner in that kind of danger. 

Or putting anyone else in the same position. Fifteen men had already died just because they resembled him and shared a similar background. If they 'borrowed' saliva, blood samples, and fingerprints from someone to substitute for his, they'd be signing that person's death warrant.

"If you'd let me--"

Reese spun back to face him. "No, Harold. The scorecard's already too full. I won't endanger anyone else. I'd rather take my chances that Samaritan's not looking too closely the day my records get entered."

"I would rather not play those odds," Finch countered. "I understand your desire to not involve another innocent in this. I don't want any more blood on _either_ of our hands." He gestured to the bench. "Please."

Reese took a seat, but left some space between them. Yielding to John's obvious desire for distance, Harold's gaze focused on some fixed point beyond Reese's right shoulder. 

"After Joss died... When you left--" 

John barely managed to contain a flinch at the memory of _that_ mistake. 

"--I brought Arthur to the safe house. He spent his last days there." 

Arthur Claypool. Harold's contemporary at MIT. The foolish computer genius who was so enamored of the idea of creating artificial intelligence, that he'd failed to anticipate the consequences of success. The man who created Samaritan.

"The brain tumor took Arthur fairly quickly," Finch continued. "He spent most of the time left to him in a troubled haze of confusion, but there were moments of lucidity. Miss Groves had informed me that the drives we had destroyed were fake, and that Greer had possession of the real ones. Despite our best efforts, he had acquired the core codes for Samaritan. I didn't...I didn't see the point of sharing that news with Arthur. 

"When he was lucid, he talked about his creation. His 'child', whose spark of life I had convinced him to snuff out. He was...distressed that he was exiting the world without leaving something of value behind. No legacy. His wife had passed away years earlier, and they'd had no children. 

"All that was left was a dying shell. He asked me to donate his body for scientific research, in the hope that perhaps someone else burdened with the same condition could be saved. 

Finch closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself visibly. "For the second time in my life, I refused the request of a dear friend. I acted...selfishly. I denied Nathan's plea to give him back access to the Irrelevant list because I thought it would protect him. Keep him alive. I didn't honor Arthur's wish, because I wanted to do the same for _you._ " 

Harold's gaze shifted to Reese for a second, then slid away.

"I wasn't confident you would return. And if you ultimately did decide to come back...by that time I feared I might not be in a position to be of any assistance in establishing you in a new life."

A polite way of saying he'd be dead. Harold would have kept working the Numbers without him. Even with Carter and Fusco's assistance, trying to do John's end of the job would have gotten Finch killed sooner, rather than later. Reese shuddered inwardly. If Harold hadn't been brave enough to face John's rejection...if he hadn't come to Italy...

"Dying is a messy business, even when it's your own body killing you, as opposed to an outside force taking your life," Harold said dully. "It sounds...macabre, but it was a simple matter to collect samples before he died...bodily fluids, fingerprints, hair samples...and preserve them." 

John's eyes widened at the import of that blandly voiced admission.

"After he died, Miss Shaw helped me dispose of Arthur's body. I paid cash to a less than ethical mortician and had him cremated, and I scattered his ashes." Harold nodded toward the river. "Then I proceeded to wipe out every trace of him that I could find."

Reese had seen Finch in action often enough to know the man was ruthless when he committed to a course of action. Harold had undoubtedly removed any physical records relating to Claypool that he had means to access, in addition to deleting digital footprints.

"Control had already done a great deal of the work. By the time I was done...Arthur Claypool never existed, except as an elusive memory to a select few."

Finch extracted a small envelope from the inner pocket of his coat. He turned it over and over in his hands reflectively, and then held it out to John.

"This contains a key to a safety deposit box at a bank in New Jersey. A small, insignificant, behind the times financial institution that still uses the archaic tradition of paper account books for its customers. There is only one camera in the lobby, trained on the teller windows, and one in the outer safety deposit box vault area which can easily be avoided if one has the mind to do so. There is no real-time transmission of the camera feeds and the recorded surveillance is stored on tape in the basement of the bank.

"The envelope also contains a New York State driver's license in the name of Garland Christopher Barron. An identity I established when I was still at MIT, the result of a dare between Arthur and Nathan and I to create a false identity, sound enough to open a bank account. I've...fleshed it out over the years. Mr. Barron is my phantom counterpart to Rudiger Smoot, the fake identity under which Arthur hid Samaritan's drives. The box is rented in Barron's name."

John finally reached out for the envelope. He slid the contents into his hand. As he had suspected, his photo graced the ID. 

"The samples can't be in the safe deposit box. They would have deteriorated."

Harold nodded. "The box contains additional documents. Barron's Social Security Card, passport, copies of income tax submissions and utility bills going back seven years, login codes and passwords for several off-shore accounts. And a key to Mr. Barron 's residence. The samples and fingerprint records can be retrieved from there. I designed the storage unit to be self-sustaining. As of two and half months ago, the samples were still viable."

Reese stared down at the driver's license. The address was well known to him. "The safe house. Barron isn't one of your bird aliases."

"I said I owned it," Finch's tone was defensive. "I never indicated it was one of _my_ names on the deed."

It was bizarre. Unbelievable. Harold had set this all up just to give John a chance at a new life. A complete new identity to hide within, birthed by the death of a friend, whom would be in no way harmed by the subterfuge they were contemplating. And damned if wouldn't work, if they could pull off the rest of the details. 

Finch had always played the long game, but this?

"Jeezus, Finch," John gasped in a stunned exhale.

Harold stiffened and twisted away from John. The figurative shutters slammed down, concealing the man Reese had come to know, and love, creating the impenetrable illusion of the prickly, arrogant billionaire John had first encountered on this very spot. 

"I'm sorry you disapprove." Harold's tone was cold as ice, and completely unrepentant.

And his interpretation of John's reaction was entirely incorrect.

Reese slid off the bench, planting himself directly in front of his partner, balanced on one knee. He pressed his hands on Harold's thighs, forcing Finch to acknowledge him. Words, however, wouldn't come. They were stuck in a throat clogged by a flood of emotion. 

Lips pinched flat in stubborn defiance, Finch lowered his gaze to lock with his. "Don't ask me to apologize for loving you," he whispered harshly. 

John searched his face, gaze tracing each beloved feature. He shook his head in wonder and regret, voice breaking when he finally choked out a plaintive response. "I left you." 

Harold's expression softened. A hint of a shrug lifted his shoulders as he laid his hands gently atop John's. "You came back."

Reese nodded. He squeezed Harold's legs gently, then shifted his grip to grasp his partner's hands. He rose to his feet, tugging Harold upright at the same time. Leaning in, John rested his forehead against Harold's. Not a word was spoken for a long time. 

None were needed.

When John finally broke the silence, it was with a huffed laugh. He eased back, a nasty, satisfied smile curving his lips. "Fooling Samaritan with its own 'daddy's' DNA and fingerprints. I like it."

"There _is_ a perverse irony in the solution," Finch acknowledged. " _If_ , we can pull it off. Once you've visited the bank, I'll need to trigger a nearly transparent reset on the alias to read as 'John Riley.' There is still the matter of retrieving the samples. The safe house _should_ have escaped being linked to us. The Barron alias is several decades old, and has never raised a question over all those years, but I can't guarantee it hasn't or won't raise a red flag somewhere. And then we still need to pull off the switch, relabeling and substituting Arthur's samples for yours, without being caught." 

"At least we'll be acting, not waiting for axe to fall." Reese nodded decisively. "Let's roll the dice, Harold."

********************

End notes: 

Kudos to those of you who realized with just a few clues that the location for this story is Queensbridge Park, where our heroes met in the pilot. 

A brief comment to those of you who find the 'solution' presented a bit too much 'deus ex machina.' (hand of God coming down to solve the problem, not a reference to the POI ep title, although the two concepts are related.) I wanted to offer a point of light in the darkness, and the solution seemed reasonable, at least to my twisted brain. Harold can be ruthless, going to great lengths to protect the ones he loves, so his gathering Arthur Claypool's DNA, fingerprints, etc. may seem a bit macabre--in the story Finch acknowledges this-- but it struck me as reasonable, and in character, since his goal is to find a way to protect John, the man he loves. And of course, that ultimately allowed me to use Samaritan's creator against it, which was just too tempting an irony to pass up. This is fanfiction after all.:)

Also, this story gave me the opportunity to plug a unexplained plot hole slash exasperating 'arrgghhh' issue I have with the current season of POI, which is, of course--how the hell can they still have safe access to the safe house?

Apologies for the language, rant concluded. Thanks for reading.

********************

Acknowledgements:

Dialogue, characters and references from various POI episodes, no copyright infringement intended.

Garland Christopher Barron is a not a real person, at least to my knowledge, although it's been suggested that we all have a dopple-ganger out there somewhere. The alias was created using a fake name generator. Kind of fun. To try it out, go here: http://online-generator.com/name-generator/fake-name-generator.php


	5. Forward Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reese has always preferred playing offense as opposed to defense. With one plan underway, John sets another in motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rated Mature for M/M established relationship, not explicit.

Traffic on Madison Avenue was nearly at a standstill, vehicles bumper-to-bumper, inching forward like some strange segmented insect. Reese wasn't in a position to complain. He had chosen this route intentionally. 

He wanted a good, long look at the Library.

The edifice that had housed their old headquarters was still several blocks up ahead on the left. Like the tip of an iceberg, only the sharply pitched roof and a portion of the uppermost floor with its small round window were clearly visible from John's current vantage point. And like those floating islands, it was what lay out of sight, in this case what lurked unseen on the second floor, which posed the danger. 

Assuming anything remained. 

If the forensic tech Fusco had plied with alcohol had been correct, that floor of the building was echoingly empty, stripped of everything they'd had to leave behind when they had fled. The speed with which SWAT had descended upon the location spoke of ruthless efficiency and a thirst for blood. Cheated of live prey, it stood to reason that the 'cleaning crew' following in their wake had avidly scooped up anything that could even marginally be considered a clue to their quarry's whereabouts.

Hell, he mused, they'd probably even collected the dust. 

Although it wasn't an option, Reese itched to get inside and see the truth for himself. 

He flexed fingers stiff from clenching the steering wheel. Nerves still jangling with post-mission adrenaline were slow to stop their twitching. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, making a conscious effort to relax tension-knotted muscles and slow his thudding pulse.

They'd made the switch, substituting Arthur Claypool's samples for John's, two hours earlier. 

Harold had been correct in presuming their available timeline to put a plan into place and protect Reese's new identity would be short. The day after the departmental memo requiring an updating of personal identification had hit everyone's inboxes, the appointment schedule for sample collection had been posted. Whether by design or Fate's twisted sense of humor, Detective Riley's name was near the top of the list.

They hadn't had thirty days, they'd had five.

Retrieving the key to the safe house from Garland Christopher Barron's safety deposit box had gone off without a hitch. The bank had been as charmingly archaic and low tech as Harold had described it. Reese had been in and out in less than twenty minutes. He had spent ten of those minutes studying the documents Finch had stashed, still floored at the lengths his partner had gone to in an attempt to guarantee Reese a future. 

Casing the old safe house had cost them a day, John finally sliding the key in the lock in the depths of the night, Finch a tense, silent accomplice in his ear. A quick sweep by the light cast from his cell phone had revealed the apartment to be secure, exactly as they had left it months earlier. Reese had retrieved the filebox-sized unit containing Claypool's samples, hardly disturbing the accumulated dust. 

Harold's engineering skills proved as exceptional as his coding: the containment device had worked as designed. The blood and saliva samples were viable; the flash-drive with the digital fingerprint records was intact and functional.

Reese and Fusco had run a subtle surveillance on days three and four--John finding legitimate excuses to walk past the conference room where the appointments were being held, to get an overall feel for the procedures used; Lionel innocently chatting up the first victims over a coffee run in the breakroom, to cull the details. 

Fortunately, the setup The Powers That Be had established worked in their favor: one tech inside the room taking blood and saliva samples, and fingerprints; one armed, dark suited individual with agency credentials few but Reese recognized, stationed in the corridor outside the conference room door. They'd had a stroke of pure luck discovering the fingerprinting was being done using the station's standard equipment. It had been a simple matter to lift a few blank records sheets from Booking.

How Finch had worked his magic, transferring Claypool's prints to those sheets, John didn't have a clue, but he suspected their recently acquired cash windfall, courtesy of the Latvian mob, had been somewhat depleted based on the shiny new 'toys' that had shown up in their subway lair. 

The swap had gone off like clockwork, Fusco slipping past the outer guard to grab his partner--Riley, whose appointment was just concluding--on the excuse of an urgently breaking case, dousing the technician with coffee from a steaming cup he had 'forgotten' he had in his hands when Reese, shrugging into his suit coat, 'accidentally' knocked Lionel's arm. While the tech sputtered and tried to wave off Fusco's fumbling assistance to mop up the spill, John had slipped the vials and fingerprint records they had prepared out of an inner pocket, deftly substituting them for the ones the tech had just taken. 

They had made their exit cleanly, Lionel blathering apologies to the irritated technician. Reese's casual shrug and amused eye-roll as he ushered the other detective from the room seemingly settling any curiosity or concern for the hubbub on the part of the guard outside the door. 

Departing the premises immediately fit with the 'breaking' case excuse, but had in reality been a strategic withdrawal. Reese and Fusco had split up, each in an unmarked squad--ostensibly to chase separate leads. 

Two hours of scanning the radio frequencies, and driving a convoluted route, which would put Reese as far away from any entrance to their subway Haven as possible in case their subterfuge was discovered and forces were sent to pursue him--the one part of the plan Finch had vehemently protested--had racked even the ex-op's nerves. 

With no APB calling for John's or Lionel's arrest on the airwaves, and the absence of any suspicious trailing vehicles in his rear-view mirror, the adrenaline surge was starting to fade, leaving in it's wake an odd mix of elation and lethargy. It was that strange mood which had prodded him to this current venture.

Reese eased off the brake and let the car roll forward, gaining nearly a full block, before the back-up of traffic ahead forced him to a halt again.

Forward progress. 

It was about _time_ they made some. 

He leaned forward in his seat, peering through the windshield. John could see the second floor tier of the Library now, the heavy plastic construction sheeting still obscuring the windows on that level. 

In his mind's eye he could picture how that inner space _should_ look, in particular the main room that lay just beyond the upper metal gate and formed the nucleus of their operation; its featured accessories the cracked glass board where their current Number's information had been taped, the round pedestal wooden table that held Finch's computers, and the swivel chair which had so seldom been empty, from which his partner would work his electronic miracles. 

It had been Harold's domain, but John had spent numerous hours there; pacing behind Finch's chair impatient for the next lead, which would allow him to save a Number or corral a perp; leaning on the sink in the restroom, gritting his teeth as Harold closed a bloody gash with stitches that boasted master tailor fussiness; lounging in a chair, idly paging through a thick reference book, pretending to be fascinated with the content, all the while covertly surveilling the enigma who was his employer-turned-friend-plus-lover. 

Stuffy and sweltering in the summer months, damp and cold as fall gave way to winter, with dust motes dancing a drunken waltz on the air and coating the sticky strands of webs spun by an army of spiders to decorate the corners of the high ceilings, it wasn't an atmosphere conducive to pleasant thoughts and comfort. 

But the Library had become 'home' for Reese in a way few places had ever held that sentiment. 

The narrow corridors between volume-laden stacks had been the perfect runways for Bear to chase a tennis ball, burning off energy so he would stay away from Harold's prized first editions. The labyrinthine layout of the second floor had provided ideal spots for John to lie in wait, surprising his partner when he wandered through, nose in a book, with a stolen kiss or a steamier intimate encounter. The alcove where baby Leila had mistaken one of his grenades for a teething toy, stirred memories of surprisingly strong paternal instincts long after she'd been delivered to her grandparents. 

The smaller space just off the main room had originally housed only Harold's audio equipment, but had gradually become a tiny kitchenette of sorts, with a small hot plate, coffee pot, microwave, and mini-refrigerator. Shelves that had been stocked with computer parts and tape reels had slowly filled with boxes of tea, bags of finely ground coffee, and non-perishables that could provide at least minimal sustenance when a case ran long into the night or the weather precluded a trip to the outer world. 

Additional creature comforts had migrated to the space from other floors of the abandoned building: a couple of surprising intact upholstered arm chairs with deep seats and high backs; and a battered leather couch on which John had spent many a hour--recuperating from a run-in with a perp, snatching some sleep between stake-outs, or keeping a lazily-lidded eye on his partner while the computer genius handled the grunt work of keeping their aliases updated, and his system in top-notch condition. Thick terry-cloth towels had replaced the scratchy paper ones in the old building's bathroom, gentle hand soap perched next to the heavy-duty goop Reese used after cleaning his weapons.

There had been early mornings of tea and coffee, and donuts with sprinkles. Late nights between Numbers, when he had enticed his partner from his chair with whispered descriptions of more enjoyable physical pursuits. 

It was poor irony that what had once been their sanctuary, was now a threat. Unfortunately, not one that could be ended with a bullet to the brain. 

Destructive thoughts were hard to ignore, however. The first floor had been left untouched during their occupancy in order to maintain the illusion that the building had been abandoned--moldering classics scattered helter-skelter on the floor screaming, 'Nothing to see here, folks!' Theoretically, there was enough flammable material still inside to start a fire. Surely Greer and Samaritan hadn't ordered all of those thousands of tomes boxed up and hauled away to be picked over for clues. 

Pile up some tinder; flick a lit match into it. Burn the place to the ground. Easy.

Better yet, a nice of block of Semtex, or several, positioned strategically, would leave a gratifying pile of dust. 

Finch would be displeased. Beyond the fact that destroying books in any manner would qualify as one of the most horrific desecrations imaginable, the Library held bittersweet memories and ghosts of dead friends. 

And realistically, razing the building was a 'close the barn door after the horse is gone' type of reaction. 

Tempting, though. 

Traffic moved forward, this time stopping Reese just short of the intersection of Madison and East 37th. He was close enough to read the graffiti decorating the building's wooden panels at street level, and to glimpse the remnants of yellow crime scene tape that clung to the metal chain link between the facade and the sidewalk.

It was as close as he dared go, even if his shield would grant him legitimate access. 

With the sample substitution successful, Detective Riley _should_ be in the clear. Any prints and DNA found at the Library would only lead to a ghost named John Reese. Shaw was still at some risk, although her time in the Library had been limited, and her covert training was still fresh enough that she had tended to tidy up after herself pretty thoroughly. As long as she kept her head up and eyes open--and wore gloves when she was moonlighting with her new bank-robbing friends--her cover as a minimum wage, make-up counter clerk should be secure. 

Harold, on the other hand...

Reese had spent the days since Finch had broken his silence about the threat the Library's contents posed, constructing a list of the possible clues they had left behind. Where Harold was concerned, it wasn't a hastily dashed shopping list, it was a damn multi-page report with color-coded tabs. 

Harold's imprint on the Library was massive, an intricate tapestry containing a million threads. Fingerprints and DNA evidence would be plentiful. Finch had been operating out of those quarters long before John had even met him. Harold had felt safe there, or at least as safe as he ever felt anywhere...protected by the invisibility he had fostered through his multiple aliases, and the building's off-the-radar status, which he had cleverly engineered by hiding its ownership in a sea of bankruptcy red tape. 

In hiding from the government and his own past, he hadn't become complacent, however. While the tangible evidence of his presence in the Library was high in volume, it was, for the most part, cryptic in nature. 

The black and white photo of a much younger Harold and Nathan Ingram, which Reese had found tucked into a randomly shelved volume, had a simple note on the back and a set of initials, but otherwise nothing to gave away the identities of the two men pictured. There were outdated, thick tax code books on various shelves, with cubby holes cut into the guts, hiding sets of keys with no suggestion of where the locks resided. Ruffling the pages of a biography on an nineteenth century land baron might yield a flutter of twenty-dollar bills, all worn and with non-sequential serial numbers, impossible to trace.

In all the snooping through the Library Reese had done in the beginning, he had found nothing with a 'name' attached. Harold had excelled in compartmentalizing his various aliases. Even among the personal items he had kept at their headquarters, there was nothing that shouted 'this belongs to Harold Finch/Wren/Partridge/Crane.' 

But the _uniqueness_ of the items could easily give the game away to a hunter who had the patience to unravel the mystery. A quality, which as Harold had reminded him, an AI had in infinite supply.

Bespoke clothing wasn't common, and Finch had always kept at least one change of clothes at the Library. A few of Harold's favorite suits still bore the haberdashery label. Granted those had been made by a tailor in Italy, whom Finch had paid handsomely for his work, and undoubtedly his silence, but it was still a lead that could ultimately reveal the existence of a private jet, a flight plan that grounded in New York, a cab or hire car record that could be traced to an address.

An analysis of the contents of the unlabeled bottle of after-shave in the top drawer of one of the file cabinets would reveal a custom mixture, starting a search of apothecaries or fragrance shops, which offered that service.

The bookplates in the volumes of Harold's collection of first editions still bore the identification of the prior owners, and offered no indication of the book seller he had purchased them from, yet their rarity created avenues of investigation. That was a road already being traveled, based on what Shaw had revealed about the trap she'd almost tripped. 

Finch had kept medications there, too. Unlabeled, white-capped orange prescription bottles containing the analgesics and muscle relaxants he hated to take, but was often forced to swallow due to the chronic pain and stiffness his injuries had left him with. Forensic examination of those pills could--

Reese hissed a curse, grateful that the light at the intersection remained red. He needed time to think this through.

The types of drugs Harold took for pain relief were easily traceable, most of them classified as controlled substances, monitored closely by the DEA. Given the rise in creative, illicit use of simple over-the-counter medications, every prescription, from generics to proprietaries, was under intense scrutiny. Samaritan had a direct pipeline into any governmental agency. Correlating patient/prescription use would be child's play.

John had made the assumption that the Machine had put the means for Finch to acquire those essential medications into play with Professor Whistler's new identity. 

Maybe it had, but it would be just like his stubborn partner to decide getting those prescriptions was too risky, and try to get by without them. 

Both Fusco and Shaw had mentioned Harold's limp seemed worse. Lionel had specifically asked about the tremors in his right hand, and suggested that Finch looked like he was doing no better on the sleep front than he had been months earlier. 

Reese hadn't needed Shaw or Fusco to point out his partner was hurting. He'd seen it in the decreased range-of-motion with each turn of Harold's head, the tight set to his shoulders, the deeper lines around his eyes and mouth. John had ascribed those physical indications of wear and tear to the stress and complexities of the situation they were facing. They were all being run ragged living two full lives simultaneously, and Finch had always pushed himself hard.

The need to keep their new covers intact had meant few opportunities to spend the night together, but they'd managed a weekly tryst. Harold had canceled on him the past two weeks. His reasons had been legitimate, but now John wondered if Finch had been intentionally keeping him at a distance. Sex revealed a lot of secrets, particularly your partner's state of well being.

 _"Even the finest sword plunged into salt water will eventually rust."_ Sun Tzu had it right. Harold's pinned and fused neck, and the damage to his lower back that produced his uneven gait, had never truly slowed him down. He was, to use his own words, 'handi-capable'. But even the strongest spirit could be worn down until its light was extinguished.

The traffic signal turned green. John made a decisive right, refusing to look at the receding vision of the Library in his rear view mirror. There was no way to change what Samaritan may have gathered from there, but Reese was damned if he was going to let the fear of what _might_ happen determine their future any longer. 

It was time to do a little evidence gathering of his own.

**************

It was approaching midnight when Reese made his way down the stairs into the subway, his thoughts drifting to what it must have been like the first time Finch traversed those steps, drawn into the depths by a will-o'-the-wisp clue left by the Machine, with only Bear at his side, and a flashlight in his hand.

Courage was not in short supply when it came to his partner. Stubbornness wasn't either, which was why John had already set a course of action in motion. Harold would object, but hopefully good sense would prevail. 

The warm glow from the vintage sconced lights down below indicated Finch was still there. A brief exchange of texts earlier had confirmed all had gone as planned with the switch at the station, and that Harold was stepping into his professor role for a mandated afternoon at the college, planning to return to their underground headquarters afterwards to spend some time in his ongoing effort to bring his new system up to speed.

John saw Bear's head pop up as he hit the top of the last flight of steps. A quick set of hand signals had the Malinois settling silently back in his bed, ears perked alertly. Reese hesitated at the lower gate, studying his partner. 

Harold was perched on a stool at the desk in the main room, his laptop open in front of him. His back was to John, spine achingly straight and rigid. Reese couldn't see his face, but the way he held himself told John everything he needed to know. 

Reese crossed the distance between them, the scuff of leather soles against the tile floor an intentional warning to alert Finch he was there. Despite that head's up, Harold flinched when John lightly laid his hands on taut shoulders.

"Worse than I thought," John said quietly. His comment was applicable to more than just the state of his partner's body. Next to the laptop were two bottles of over-the-counter meds--generic versions of Tylenol and Ibuprofen, in low dose tablets that would barely take the edge off anything worse than a headache or a simple muscle strain. He let his hands rest where they lay, hoping their warmth would provide some relief. 

"Office hours," Harold grunted in reply. 

The desk chair in Professor Whistler's office was a relic that predated any concept of ergonomic comfort. Finch had complained about it before. 

"The Chair from Hell," John murmured, shifting the position of his hands to the nape of Harold's neck and between his shoulder blades. 

"Yes." Another flinch, and a stifled gasp. "Four hours in it would break even _you,_ Mr. Reese."

Harold shifted on the stool, but John's terse, "Sit still," kept him from moving out from under Reese's grasp. Feeling the barest 'give' in the tension under his hands, John slid his palms to rest on Harold's shoulders again, kneading gently. 

"Usually when you get this knotted up you take one of your muscles relaxers, or a pain pill," Reese observed, striving for casual. "Over-the-counter meds usually don't cut it."

"The prescription-strength dose tends to make me fuzzy. I need to be able to focus. I still have work to do."

All true statements. Just not _all_ of the truth. 

"Didn't look like you were concentrating on much when I arrived. Except maybe how much pain you're in."

The muscles under John's hands, which had been on the verge of loosening, clenched. The game was up. They both knew it. Harold didn't respond, choosing, as he often did, silence over a lie. 

John kept up the gentle massage, his fingertips providing stimulation, his tone soothing, non-judgemental. "I paid a visit to Whistler's apartment today. Not much in his medicine cabinet. Doesn't his contract with the University include medical coverage?" 

"Yes," Finch admitted with a resigned sigh. "I haven't pursued finding a new doctor."

"Why not?"

"With my pre-existing condition, any physician would expect to be able to review past records of care, perhaps contact my last doctor for a consult. At the very least they'd want to take a full history, run their own tests and procedures. Results are all stored digitally now, even x-rays. And prescriptions are tracked. Patient confidentiality means nothing to Samaritan. It would have access to every detail." 

Harold dropped one shoulder in a clear signal that he was tired of being poked and prodded, physically and verbally. "Greer, and by extension Samaritan, already suspect we've retained our base of operations in New York. I'd rather not offer them confirmation."

Reese moved into Harold's line of sight. "We can't do this if we're running scared, Harold.' 

"I'm not--" Finch glanced away. "I'm managing."

"Are you?" John coasted his knuckles down his lover's cheek. "I don't like seeing you in pain. Not when it can be avoided." He extracted three orange prescription bottles from the pocket of his coat and set them on the desk. 

Harold's eyes widened. "What have you done?" he whispered.

"What I should have been doing all along. Taking care of my partner."

Harold's hand trembled as he picked one of the bottles to read the label. "Dr. Tillman? We can't involve her. We don't have the resources to protect her."

"She wants to help."

"John--"

"Megan's already put the paperwork through to list you as a patient. She'll keep things off the books and out of the computers as much as she can." Reese closed his hand over his partner's, the prescription bottle in their grasp a tangible reminder of the grim reality they were facing. "The way this is slated to play out, we're going to need a doctor on speed dial. Better it's someone we already know." 

Finch shook his head. "The risk..."

"You said it yourself. There are facts we can't change, lives that will be at risk no matter what we do. All we can do is keep fighting back. We're at war. _'If you fight with all your might, there is a chance of life; whereas death is certain if you cling to your corner.'_ "

Harold scowled at him, but there was little heat in the glare. "You're suggesting we employ a two-thousand year-old philosophy against a twenty-first century artificial intelligence."

Reese shrugged. "Whether the battle comes to us, or we take it to them, we need to be at full strength. _You_ need to be at full strength."

Harold's gaze was fixed on the pill bottle in their joined hands. John could feel his fingers tightening around it and was sure Finch was going to fight him on this. 

Then Harold glanced toward his laptop. On the monitor screen was a photo of a young woman with wide green eyes that sparkled. Next to the image were the details of her life, which Harold had apparently been gathering before John arrived. 

A new Number. 

It was the tipping point. Harold's shoulder's slumped for a moment, then straightened, and he offered a short nod in grudging acceptance. "You're right of course. We can't keep looking over our shoulders when we have a job to do. We have to focus on what's ahead of us."

"Is she in immediate danger?" Reese asked, nodding toward the screen. 

"If she is, even we can't help her. She's currently in transit, in the air over the Atlantic. Her flight is scheduled to arrive at JFK at ten, tomorrow morning. I'm still collecting data, but from what I've been able to determine from her on-line appointment calendar, she'll be hopping from one meeting to another in the Garment District over the next few days."

John squeezed his hand. "Then we'd better be well rested when she touches down." 

 

************

Acknowledgments:

Dialogue, characters and references from various POI episodes, no copyright infringement intended. 

"Even the finest sword plunged into salt water will eventually rust."-- Sun Tzu

“if you fight with all your might, there is a chance of life; whereas death is certain if you cling to your corner” -- Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_


	6. Coming to Terms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The personal connections we make are our strengths, and our weaknesses. The loved ones we hold dear are the threads of our personal tapestries; their absence, broken strands in the web. When our team was forced to assume new identities, what happened to the lives they left behind?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Rated Mature for subject matter and violence (off-screen and not explicit, however be aware if that's a trigger for you). See additional note in the Acknowledgements at the end. 
> 
> Established M/M relationship-- one tiny segment at the end of the chapter so if you blink, you'll miss it.

Heart pounding, Harold's eyes darted from one screen to another. The raised monitors all flickered with varying versions of the same tragedy. 

None of them told him what he desperately needed to know. 

New images appeared on one screen. A breaking news report. He leaned in anxiously, turning up the sound on that monitor with a flurry of keystrokes.

_"...among the missing. Again, this is Wendy Hawthorne reporting from Jamam, a refugee camp in South Sudan's Upper Nile state, where an unprovoked attack has left an already vulnerable and reeling population, grieving additional losses._

_At 0:400 local time, a small, heavily armed force descended on sleeping refugees and Medecins Sans Frontieres staff. The incursion left at least 15 dead, hundreds wounded, and untold numbers unaccounted for. No one has claimed responsibility for the attack at this time._

_Jamam is one of the largest camps in South Sudan, housing up to 120,000 refugees who have fled here from the conflict in the Blue Nile state. MSF, better known to some as Doctors Without Borders, has 3,600 personnel in the South Sudan, working to provide sorely needed medical aid._

_According to reports, three MSF staff are dead, and at least a dozen more are listed among the wounded or missing, including seven Americans. Names of the deceased are being withheld until family notifications have been made by the US Embassy. Unconfirmed reports list Dr. William Ingram, son of IFT Founder Nathan Ingram--"_

"Among the missing," Harold whispered, cutting the audio. 

Will Ingram; his last living, breathing connection to Nathan. The boy he'd watched grow up through diaper rash, skinned knees, first dates and fast cars. The young man who had used his one phone call to ask Harold to bail him out of jail, when he'd made a poor choice in gambling companions.

The only child of a billionaire, who had inherited not only his father's wealth, but his good looks, keen mind, stubbornness and compassion. The doctor who had eschewed the easier journey of a stateside residency in favor of perfecting his skills through trial by fire in the most abysmal conditions imaginable, because he'd wanted to be where he could help people the most.

Will, who knew him as one of Nathan's best friends--Harold Wren, insurance executive--but understood absolutely nothing about who he really was. Knew nothing about his real work. Or his mistakes. 

His lies.

The son he'd never have. 

Among the missing.

_Presumed--_

No. 

Harold slammed the door shut on that train of thought. He forced the chaos swirling in his head into an imaginary black box; resolutely ignored the fear that threatened to paralyze him. Memories and emotions were of no help to him now. 

He needed to think. Be logical. Consider options. 

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Information was what he needed. Details. Real-time reports, not the insipid blather of well-groomed TV journalists more intent on sensationalism than accuracy.

Eyes on the ground would be ideal. If the attack had taken place where even _some_ semblance of modern technology existed, there would be countless surveillance options to tap into--private and corporate security systems, CCTV cameras, bank ATMs. The Internet would be groaning under the strain as i-reporters, bloggers and stunned witnesses clogged the web with tweets, and uploaded photos captured by their cell phones to their preferred social media. 

There would be a wealth of data to mine. His facial recognition programs could chew through those images and give him a lead to follow--a glimpse of a stubbled jaw, an unruly head of sandy blonde hair, the distinctive shape of a cheekbone. 

But the South Sudan was as close to medieval in terms of technology as you could get. Jamam didn't qualify as a city, other than in population. It was a sprawling refugee camp that stretched for miles over inhospitable terrain; hastily constructed buildings, tents and shacks made out of whatever was handy; no running water, and little electricity beyond what the few imported gasoline generators provided to the government security forces and the medical staff. Jamam's populace didn't carry cell phones or tablets in their pockets--they carried near-naked children on their hips, and handfuls of grain in the folds of their tattered robes. 

There _were_ surveillance sources he could access, however. Satellites--many more than the average person could even conceive of, or be comfortable with--spun around the globe, feeding covert operations worldwide with visuals, thermal imaging, and audio transmissions. With American deaths and lives still hanging in the balance, the military and CIA would have full authority to exercise their mandates, putting feet on the ground, and in the air. Attacks on Americans, even off home soil, would raise the domestic terrorism threat level, shifting the FBI and the NSA into gear. 

He could hack those orbiting platforms, dip into the chatter flowing like a river through feeds to domestic and international intelligence agencies, ransack burgeoning data bases.

The answers he needed were at his fingertips. A few keystrokes and--

He would lead the enemy to their doorstep. 

He yanked his hands away from the keyboard as if they'd been burned; dug a heel into the mat under the wheels of his chair to shove himself backwards. Temptation out of reach, he balled his hands into fists, practically shaking with impotent rage.

He couldn't. 

He had the skill...the knowledge...but he couldn't take the risk. 

Samaritan had access to all of those feeds. 

An intrusion to the degree he was contemplating would be noticed. 

And acted upon. 

An insidious suspicion wormed its way through the morass of emotions swamping him. _No one had claimed responsibility for the attack._

He tried to convince himself that wasn't unusual. The Sudan was a highly unstable area. Foreign nationals, like the MFS staff were often the targets of insurgents, angered by the presence of outsiders on their turf. While technology was limited in the area, weapons were plentiful. Any number of home-grown militant groups could have been behind the assault on the camp. Some were more eager for validation than others.

But he was painfully aware Samaritan could task its assets just as easily, or issue 'legitimate' orders to a black ops team under the guise of a threat to national security, to retrieve or eliminate a specific target.

Had Will been taken, or killed, because of him?

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, fingers pressing hard against his skull as if he could force the idea from his mind. 

It wouldn't be the first time their enemies had used a personal connection against them. Samaritan had tracked down Grace Hendricks through a gossamer strand that had tied Harold Martin to Harold Finch. Greer had pulled that thread, abducting her, threatening her life, to force Harold out of hiding and into his hands. 

Greer knew he had created the Machine with Nathan Ingram. It wouldn't have been difficult for Samaritan to examine the warp and weft of his old partner's life and discover a 'friend' named Harold Wren...to search for any connections it could exploit in its obsessive hunt, and target a young doctor in the Sudan who called Wren 'uncle'. 

Death and destruction would be acceptable collateral damage. It would mean nothing to an AI chess master intent on capturing a pawn in order to topple a king. 

Harold raised his head to stare dully at the monitors. The attack on the camp might be a simple, albeit tragic act of violence in a civil dispute, or a strategy to lure him into a desperate act. 

There was no way to know. Any attempt he made to seek out Will could be traced back, endangering their entire operation. He couldn't put John's life, or Sameen's, or Samantha's at risk. Couldn't trade one life, no matter how precious it was to him, for theirs, for the lives of their Numbers...for the future. 

His gaze shifted to the open laptop at his left. Its screen was filled with a photo and details on their current Number, an inset window tracking the GPS on Reese's phone as he tailed her. 

It was the strip of black tape he'd placed over the laptop's camera that drew his attention, however. A security precaution to keep 'something' from looking back. 

Both Samaritan, and the Machine. 

He could peel back that tape. Open a dialogue with his creation. Ask it--

But he wouldn't. He _couldn't._

Greer had been right. Uncertainty _was_ his personal abyss. He had hobbled the Machine, encrypted it so that not even he could access it directly, not just because he'd been unable to anticipate its evolution, but because he hadn't trusted himself not to abuse the power it offered. It would have been too tempting to try to 'fix' the world. Make choices for others. 

He had set the limits. He had to live within them. 

Like anyone else who's loved one was in peril, he would have to wait and watch and wonder, clinging to frail hope.

Just as Will had been forced to do when Harold Wren had disappeared from the face of the earth. 

What had gone through Will's head when he had made his regular call to touch base, and found Wren's phone unanswered, disconnected? Contacting Universal Heritage Insurance would have yielded no answers. Wren's secretary and co-workers would have had no clue to his whereabouts either. As Harold Wren, he had worked alongside those people for years. What had _they_ thought about his disappearance? 

Had they called the police to report him missing when he failed to show up at the office on his scheduled days? Had they stood by in shocked disbelief when a swarm of grim dark suited men pilfered his office? Had they been grilled for information? Hovered around the water cooler trading dark speculation about the mild-mannered insurance executive whom it turned out no one really knew?

So many of his aliases had existed as only digital phantoms, but others had worn tangible form in the real world. Those had been business relationships and philanthropic ones, instead of personal, but surely someone must have wondered what had become of those men when the void had swallowed them up. 

Would the same scenario have played out in John Warren's office? Reese had maintained a presence there in order to make that alias as 'real' as possible, even if most of his contact was handled via phone and faxed or emailed documentation. 

What about Joan, the homeless woman who had befriended Reese during his time on the streets? Harold knew John had stayed in touch with her, kept an eye on things to make sure she was safe. Would she have wondered where he'd gone? Or would she have let him drift out of her life, thinking he was living happily-ever-after somewhere.

Being forced into hiding had meant leaving behind so many lives they had touched. There had been no time for damage control, no way to cushion the fallout. 

No time to say goodbye. 

As if dead men did that type of thing. 

"You once told John you didn't regret building the Machine."

Harold spun in his chair. 

Root--no, it was Miss Groves, based on the miasma of loneliness visible in her eyes, something that was often present when she was out of contact with the Machine--slouched against one side of the open doorway of the old subway car. 

It was impossible to tell what new alias and occupation the Machine had arranged for her next 72 hours. Dressed in short boots and leggings, a fitted black jacket over a silk blouse, slightly windblown hair cascading over her shoulders, she could slip almost invisibly into nearly any social or business situation. 

Harold felt that fractured moment of uncertainty her unexpected appearance in either persona always evoked; wariness amplified now by annoyance at her ill-timed interruption.

And distinctly _unwelcome_ commentary. 

The bitter taste of loss coated his tongue, freshened by the uncertainty of Will Ingram's status. "I believe I also said I hadn't anticipated the personal cost."

Her gaze shifted to the monitor screens, then back to him. "You should forgive Her. She's forgiven you." 

Indignation and resentment a hot gorge in his throat, he turned his back to her. He shifted the chair forward with an abrupt lurch, putting the keyboard within reach. 

"We've discussed my opinions on the issue of assigning human qualities to an AI, Miss Groves," he responded coldly, flicking a few keys to return the main screens to their normal status. Only a small window in the monitor directly in front of him remained open to the news reports.

Undaunted by his dismissal, she moved to perch in one of the subway car's formed resin seats to his left, hovering in his peripheral vision.

"Why did you stop talking to Her, Harold?"

He ignored her presence and the question, checking his laptop. John was still in the Garment District, still trailing their Number.

"She doesn't blame you for stealing Her memories. She understands why you did it. So do I."

Harold stared at the pulsing red dot registering John's position. "That's quite a change of perspective. You accused me of crippling it. Killing it each day."

"You didn't trust Her. You still don't trust Her."

He raised his head to lock gazes with her. Her comments had lacked an accusatory tone, but his response was laced with conviction. "With good reason, Miss Groves." 

She settled back in the seat. "Why did you come back then?" She waved her hand in a sweeping gesture to encompass their new headquarters. "She left you a clue, but it was your choice to follow it."

"As you quite succinctly noted, John's and Sameen's involvement in this enterprise was my doing," he said stiffly. "I got them into this mess, and I had a responsibility to get them out of it. I had originally intended to offer them this space as a safe Haven."

"But you stayed. Got involved again."

Lips pressed to a hard line, he stared down at his laptop. He had returned to work the Numbers, not because he'd resolved his conflicted feelings about the Machine, but because of John, and because pushing back against Samaritan had been the right thing to do. 

No one else had been a position to do it. 

In a surprise move, she abruptly changed subjects. She reached out and turned his laptop toward her, studying the screen. "Pretty. Who is she?"

Twitching in annoyance, he spun the laptop back to its original position. "Alice Enright."

"So what's her story?"

An alert flashed on his laptop. He glanced at the raised monitors. One of the searches he had set to run earlier had finished, revealing new information on an individual Enright was scheduled to meet with later that afternoon--the head of a New York based clothing firm who had a significant gambling debt. 

He let his gaze linger on the window containing the news feed from the Sudan as he ran a secure download, but it was a repeat of what he'd seen earlier. He closed his eyes against the ache in his soul, spatial memory guiding his fingers to the correct keys to forward the information pertinent to their Number to John's phone.

"Is she a victim or perpetrator?"

He barely hid a grimace. _Damn her and her incessant prodding._

"That's yet to be determined," he answered brusquely. "She just arrived back in the States after a month in Europe spent visiting the major clothing design studios."

"So John's on her trail," Samantha rambled on. "Watching her. Sorting out whether to stop her, or help her."

He twisted to glare at her. "Is there a point you wish to make, Miss Groves?"

She shrugged. "She's a Number."

"Yes."

"Like the Congressman." 

"Hardly," he hissed acidly. "There's a distinction to be made in regard to the threat level posed by a clothing buyer for Macy's, and a US Congressman with the power to put Samaritan online."

" _She_ doesn't make distinctions."

Harold shook his head. "It wanted us to commit murder."

"Did She?" Samantha leaned forward, staring at him intently. "Or did She do exactly what you taught Her to do? Look...listen...pull the anomaly out of the pile of tangled strings and call your attention to someone that needed a second look?"

He blinked at her in confusion. "McCourt was in league with Decima, taking kickbacks--"

"True. He was an opportunistic and corrupt pawn. But as you pointed out, that didn't mean he deserved to die. Offing McCourt might have delayed Samaritan coming online, but his cooperation wasn't the only egg in Decima's basket."

"We didn't know about the connection between Vigilence and Decima at the time," he murmured. 

"Nope. McCourt was just a threat...or a potential threat. She left it up to _you_ to determine which it was." Samantha sat back again, crossing her legs, gaze pensive. "Do you remember Cyrus Wells?"

Multi-millionaire turned janitor. A dark link to Root's past. He nodded.

"Despite the tragedy he'd experienced, Cyrus lived his life with the philosophy that there was an order to things...a plan. He believed that everything that happens is a part of it, the good and the bad."

Her gaze drifted toward the monitors. Harold turned to look at them as well, wondering what had caught her attention. The news feed from the Sudan had updated. A single click of his mouse increased the window size to full-screen. He flinched. The images showed rows of covered bodies, people bent in grief. 

Was Will one of those shrouded corpses?

Anger swept through him. He lost all patience with her strange interrogation that stirred up painful memories and dangled questions to which he had still found no answers. 

"Are you suggesting we adopt Mr. Wells' philosophy, Miss Groves?" He gestured at the image on the screen. "Accept the deaths of innocents, of cruelty and violence which has no rhyme or reason? Accept loss without question? Let some 'higher power' determine our fate?" He shook his head firmly. "You'll forgive me if I have difficulty embracing that concept."

"It would less painful."

It would be. Just sit back, take whatever came at you. Don't connect, because then there would be no pain when someone died or went missing. Don't make choices, let someone else, or something else do that for you. No one to blame. No consequences to face.

But the ability to choose...that was what being human was all about, wasn't it? Making a decision even if you didn't have the full picture. To go left or right, up or down. Right or Wrong. To run headlong toward a cliff and make the decision to stop only when teetering on the edge. The decision to back away, to retreat, was just as important a choice. Sometimes it was the better one to make, despite the consequences.

One of most difficult issues he had faced when building the Machine, was how to teach it to value human life. To plant in its core codes the inviolable concept that no person was more or less important than another. That they were not interchangeable. That people had the right to make their own choices, despite their capacity to make such ugly ones.

"The human race is messy, Harold," she sing-songed as if reading his mind.

"The human race is worth _saving,_ Miss Groves," he retorted vehemently.

A full sweet smile curved her lips. "You're right. You taught Her that people matter. You taught me that, too."

She stilled abruptly, eyes going a little wide, head cocked slightly. It was Root who finally spoke, in a soft voice that pled for understanding. Maybe for forgiveness. 

"And She's learned that it's okay that... sometimes... some people matter just a little bit more."

The monitor screen containing the news feed blanked, then sprang to life anew, the lines of body bags replaced by another image--a satellite capture--from the same general location. From the shabby conditions of the structure surrounding the two people in the shot, they were on the fringes of the camp, far from the MSF hospital where the attack had been focused. 

The date/time-stamp was from scant minutes earlier. The picture was grainy, but there was no mistaking the subject matter. 

Will Ingram cradled a newborn infant in his hands, the baby still coated with amniotic fluid, a wrinkled seed of humanity, mouth open as if screaming at the injustice of being forced out into the cold. Will's expression...was filled wonder. And pride. 

Harold stared at the screen, unable to look away. Will was alive. Safe. 

He was barely aware of Root rising to her feet, laying a hand on his shoulder. 

"You need to trust Her, Harold."

She was gone as silently as she'd arrived. 

He didn't move for a long time, gaze fixed on the image, memorizing every pixel. 

 

********************

Harold had relocated to the desk in the main room by the time Reese made a late night appearance in the subway. His laptop was open, and Harold glanced occasionally at the screen filled with the image of Will Ingram he had downloaded, while he tidied up the paperwork from their successfully concluded Number. 

Enright had emerged on the victim side of the ledger. The threat had been the gentleman with the gambling debt. He'd been desperate for Enright to sign a contract with his firm. The promised cash flow would keep the wolves from door, and his throat. He had contemplated murder, thinking he could persuade her subordinate into signing with him if Enright was out of the way.

A few terse words from Reese on the foolishness of that path, and the consequences, had changed his mind. As it had turned out, Enright had been eager to sign a substantial purchasing contract, claiming his designs rivaled many she'd seen in Europe. 

John placed a handled shopping bag on the desk. Harold eyed it suspiciously. The bag was square bottomed, made of plain kraft paper, with no company logo on the front to suggest the contents. 

"Beware Greeks bearing gifts, Mr. Reese?"

"I'm not Greek, Finch." A corner of John's mouth lifted. "I'm disappointed. You said you knew everything about me."

"Ex-CIA operatives bearing gifts, then?" Harold poked one finger at the bag. "Should I be concerned about explosive devices?"

Reese shrugged, but his eyes danced with humor. His expression altered abruptly as his gaze swept the desk, landing on the laptop. It was clear he recognized the subject on the screen.

"Finch--"

"He's safe," Harold hurried to assure him. "There was an attack on the refugee camp where he's been working. Fortunately, Will was away from the MSF hospital complex where the worst of the damage occurred...on the far side of the camp apparently, helping bring a new life into the world."

John frowned, leaning forward to study the image more closely. "Where did you get this?"

Harold glanced at the laptop, to the black strip of tape over the camera eye he still hadn't removed. He wasn't quite ready to take that step. "It was...a gift."

Reese pinned him with an intense stare. Harold could almost hear the wheels turning in his partner's head. High on the list of questions John was undoubtedly pondering, was how reckless Harold had been. 

"From a source you trust?" John asked warily.

Trust his Machine? Not yet. Not completely. But detente was an option. 

"From one I'm coming to terms with," he responded. 

Reese hummed a low half-growl, as if he wasn't completely happy with that answer, but he straightened and nudged the paper bag closer to Harold. "Speaking of gifts..."

Harold reach inside, pulling out the first object his fingers came in contact with. A book. Paperback, the cover worn, the edges curling a bit, showing its use. 

"Not a first edition, but it's a start on a new collection," John explained. "Thought you'd appreciate the subject matter."

Harold ghosted fingertips across the title. T _he Art of War._ "Appropriate."

Reese reached into the bag this time, and withdrew a box of tea, setting it down in front of Harold. "There's a second box for your place."

Sencha green, the label proclaimed. Harold set the book aside and popped open the box, closing his eyes and inhaling the rich aroma emanating from the leaves inside. A delighted smile broke free and he didn't try to hide it. The hints of sweetness and light pine suggested this was Shincha-- 'new tea', leaves from the first month's harvest. His favorite.

"Thank you."

John shot him a surprised look. "I was expecting an argument...which I was prepared to counter with facts."

"Such as?"

"Japan exports over 2 metric tons of tea a year, and there are over 300 stores to buy Sencha green in New York City alone. Enjoying a box or two is going to slide under the radar." 

"A compelling argument." Harold took another sniff, resisting the urge to crumble a few of the delicate tea leaves and release even more of the enticing smell.

Bear came bolting in from one of the side tunnels, his rat patrol finished. He danced around John's legs, the Malinois' nostrils flaring as the dog sniffed him thoroughly from foot to hip, long pink tongue licking Reese's fingers avidly. From the intensity of his activity, and the sheepish expression on his partner's face, Harold suspected a bag of Bear's dog food--the good stuff--was waiting in the car. 

And how dangerous was that in the overall scheme of things? For all Harold knew, John had stolen it, just to avoid a potential complication. 

"Miss Groves paid me a visit earlier," he offered, closing up the box of tea.

"And what did Root say that put you in such an accepting mood?"

Harold's gaze flicked to the laptop. "Her visit reminded me we were promised hope."

"Did that reminder come from her, or the Machine?"

Harold shrugged. "A bit of both, I believe."

Reese nodded. Nudged the bag again. The bundle Harold extracted was wrapped in white tissue paper, several inches thick and roughly a foot long. Whatever was inside was firm, but not rigid, and there was a 'give' to the object when he squeezed the paper gently. 

He glanced up at John curiously, but his partner's expression gave nothing away. 

Laying the bundle on the desk, he peeled back the tissue paper, breath catching when he saw what was inside. 

His fingers shook a little as he unfolded a beautiful dark blue-violet vest. Mesmerized, he stroked his fingertips across the smooth nap of the high-quality wool. He hadn't worn a waistcoat since adopting Whistler's identity. 

"You can try it on when we get to your place," Reese said quietly.

Harold smoothed his hand over the vest again, fingering the mother-of-pearl buttons appreciatively. "I'm afraid Professor Whistler doesn't own anything that will complement this, John."

Reese leaned in to whisper in his ear. "Bare skin goes with anything, Harold."

 

*************************  
End notes: John seems to be getting in the last word in most of these chapters. lol 

One more chapter/story to go, and that one will contain a bedroom scene, so for those of you not interested in that, this is the end. Thanks to all who have left comments and followed along on this journey. 

For those with a sharp eye, Wendy Hawthorne appears courtesy of "The Sentinel" episode, "True Crime", in which the character was an abrasive reporter. No copyright infringement intended.

Jamam is a real refugee camp in the South Sudan. MSF is on-site there, trying to bring relief to its displaced population. No intent to lessen the impact of that tragic situation is intended by my use of actual details or my own speculation regarding the conditions there. 

 

************************  
Acknowledgements:

Dialogue, characters and references from various POI episodes, no copyright infringement intended.

"Beware of Greeks Bearing Gifts"-- translation from Virgil, "The Aeneid", Book 2 

"The Art of War"-- Sun Tzu


	7. Strength in Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the strongest warriors need time to decompress--to regain their balance and heal, before taking up the shield and sword of battle again. 
> 
> And, yes, the vest makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter rated Mature to Explicit for M/M established, intimate relationship.

Reese pulled back the covers on the bed and slid in, almost groaning at the sensuous glide of smooth sheets against bare skin. Careful not to dislodge the Sig-Sauer tucked up against the headboard, he shuffled the pillows under his head, giving the top one a couple of solid thumps before settling against it. 

A satisfied smile curved his lips. While high thread-count sheets weren't a luxury he'd indulged in for _his_ new apartment, he was pleased Finch had chosen to use some of their 'ill-gotten gains'--as he would term it--to purchase some creature comforts. The rest of his partner's dwelling offered few enough of those. 

Professor Whistler's faculty accommodations were modest, to say the least. The apartment was an older narrow townhouse style, sandwiched within a row of a dozen more just like it, with one large room off the front entry, an out-of-date kitchen toward the rear, one bedroom and a bathroom on the upper level. Reese presumed it rented furnished--he couldn't imagine Harold purchasing any of the uncomfortable furniture, or the few pieces of 'sofa-art' that graced the walls on the first floor. 

The only windows were at the front and back of the dwelling, affording little brightening of the bland interior. The bathroom barely had enough room to turn around in. And the steep set of steps that connected the first floor to the second...well, he was grateful Harold had relented and started his medications again, because even on a good day, those stairs were a strain to climb. 

The most positive feature was the highly discreet rear entrance. Finch had installed his own security system, so safety wasn't an issue, and the lack of neighboring surveillance allowed Reese to come and go without being observed. 

He let his gaze drift around the smallish bedroom, the single room in the apartment that bore any stamp of his lover. While it was scarcely large enough for the queen-sized bed, a narrow upright dresser, and a nightstand, splashes of color and texture created the feeling of a cozy nest. 

The dark green comforter that covered the bone-colored sheets was embossed with a meandering pattern of vines. The throw pillows John had removed and tossed in the corner next to the dresser when he'd opened up the bed were as colorful as they were utilitarian, jewel-tones in a mixture of fabrics pleasing to the touch. In the narrow closet, nestled next to the more staid professorial garb, a stray bit of plumage--a deep purple scarf--was draped over a hanger.

Atop the dresser, Harold's wallet, money clip and keys. On the nightstand, the dog-eared copy of _The Art of War,_ which Reese had given him, lay next to his phone and a slim laptop; tools of the trade within easy reach. 

The walls were bare, except for the one opposite the head of the bed, where a single large piece of shadowbox-framed art dominated the space. It was three-dimensional, made of business card-shaped tiles, stacked in a four-layer pattern-- its overall design bringing to mind, oddly enough, the shell of a turtle with its overlapping scales. The painted designs on the tiles had an oriental feel, freeform images of birds and flowers. 

The artwork was a recent acquisition. There was an odd beauty to it, a complexity that certainly fit his partner, but it was an unusual piece for him to select. John couldn't recall Finch having anything like it, not in any of the other apartments Harold had owned under his prior aliases. There was something about it that tugged at John's subconscious, like it was a puzzle he needed to solve. 

Like its owner, although at the moment, Harold was a much more pleasing enigma to contemplate.

Staring up at the ceiling, absently tracking a meandering crack in the plastered surface, John focused on the sounds of Harold finishing his night-time routine; the tiled bathroom amplifying the scuff of a slippered foot, the shussh of a drawer being closed, the ping of dripping water. 

Reese smiled and slid over to his partner's side of the bed, reaching out to turn the small lamp on the nightstand to its lowest setting, before resettling the covers to trap his body heat and warm the sheets. Harold was amusingly anal about his nightly ablutions, the order of events carried out with a precision that matched his coding. Tracking the sounds indicating each stage had become a game that John played eagerly, as it allowed him to savor each second of anticipation before his lover was in his arms.

A faint high-pitched squeal, and a low metallic moan signaled the doorknob turning and hinges argumentatively rotating on their bolts. A soft murmur preceded the thump of Bear's tail on the hardwood floor of the landing where he was curled for the night on sentry duty.

John crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. 

"I believe you're in my spot, Mr. Reese."

John contained the grin that wanted to break free, pasting on an innocent 'who me?' expression when he opened his eyes. 

Harold stood in the doorway of the bedroom, peering at him sternly over the top of his wire-rim glasses, the pair he often switched to at night as a break from the heavier framed pairs he wore during the day. There was a playful smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, belying the glare and flatness of his tone. The points of his spiky hair were dark with moisture, his cheeks slightly pink from a fresh shave. Muscles loose and relaxed after a hot shower, his eyes were clear, and the lines around his mouth that spoke of pain had almost disappeared.

The telltale marks, where John had nipped and suckled the tender skin under his jaw during their earlier round of lovemaking, stood out in sharp contrast on the pale skin at his lover's throat. They'd found a use for the ugly couch downstairs, which while spine-wracking to sit on, provided the perfect width and structural integrity to accommodate John laying his partner down and sucking a portion of Harold's brilliant mind out through his cock, after which Harold had returned the favor, the sofa's back a perfect height for Reese to drape himself over as Harold used his talented fingers to reach inside and set off John's own mind-blowing orgasm.

John felt a twinge of disappointment that his partner seemed to have forgotten his promise of a private fashion show. Instead of the new vest--and nothing else--Harold was wearing his deep burgundy robe, the one that tied at the side, the black edging stark against his skin and the soft pelt of enticing brown and gray chest hair. 

Harold took the few steps toward the bed, pausing to toe off his slippers. John tossed back the covers and swung his legs over the side, deftly positioning himself so that Harold stood between his spread thighs. He smoothed the palms of his hands up the outside of robe, tracing the surprisingly muscular upper thighs, stopping to rest on his lover's hipbones; the soft nap of the robe's fabric catching slightly on his calloused fingers as he squeezed and gave a gentle tug to pull Harold closer. 

He tilted his head back slightly to meet his partner's gaze. "I believe _you're_ overdressed, Mr. Finch."

Harold hummed low in his throat, head tilted slightly to the side, keen eyes studying him. John held perfectly still as that intense gaze gentled; enveloped him. Reese's skin tingled in anticipation. 

Because as satisfying as their energetic lovemaking had been earlier, this...this was their ritual; harkening back to the first time they had come together as lovers, when Harold's heart was in his eyes, and his feather-like touch had made John believe he was something precious, someone to be cherished. 

As Harold reached out to touch the salt and pepper hair at his left temple, John let his eyes drift shut and drank in the sensations of his lover's fingers slowly teasing through the short strands, tracing behind the curve of his ear, down along the faintly stubbled line of his jaw, pausing to place a butterfly touch of sensitive pads against his lips, coasting in a gentle swoop over a high cheekbone, trailing lightly down the long tendons of his neck, coming to rest curled around his nape.

John's lips parted to welcome Harold's kiss--deep and slow and everything that 'home' was supposed to be. 

The faint pressure of Harold's hands easing John's from his hips as his lover ended the kiss and straightened, prompted Reese to open his eyes. 

"Since you're fond of the hand's-on approach..." Harold guided John's hands to the tie of his robe, a lifted eyebrow and shining eyes completing the rest of his sentence admirably.

John wasn't about to refuse the invitation. A tug pulled the knot free, the robe falling open to offer a tantalizing glimpse of deep blue violet and...

Bare skin _did_ go with everything.

John reached up and pushed the robe off Harold's shoulders, guiding it down his arms to lie puddled on the floor. He smoothed his palms across the soft wool of the vest at waist height, from the center outward, letting his pinky fingers slip across the edge of the fabric to tease warm skin. A shiver under his hands had him tipping his head back to look up into his partner's face, where a smile tugged at both corners of Harold's mouth. 

Rising to his feet, John slid right into Harold's space, enjoying the sensation of expensive fabric against his skin, capturing a sense memory of the shape of each little button pressed against flesh. He slid his hands up Harold's back, and then down, fingers arcing over the curve of his partner's ass on the downward swoop, enjoying the startled gasp when he murmured, "Just checking the fit," into the shell of a rapidly pinking ear. 

He nuzzled the freshly shaved skin at the juncture of Harold's jaw, inhaling the fresh scents of soap and cologne, tonguing the throbbing pulse point an inch lower as he finger-walked his way down Harold's arms. Lacing their fingers together, he swallowed Harold's low groan and dove in for a kiss. Sealed together from lip to groin, John slowly pivoted them until they had changed places. Guiding him with practiced grace, John eased Harold down to lie flat on his back on the bed, adjusting the pillows to support his lover's neck before settling over him, knees on either side of his hips. 

Heat pooled in John's groin as he looked down at his partner, flushed and half-hard, lips reddened, the fabric of the vest shifting with each breath like it was a part of Harold's skin, the color intensifying the blue of his eyes.

John slipped the glasses from Harold's face and placed them on the nightstand. He fingered the bottom button of the vest and started to tease it open, momentarily distracted when Harold stroked his hands up John's arms, fingertips fluttering across his shoulders before dropping to drag across his nipples. 

John snagged those teasing hands, pressed them to the bed, and went back to unwrapping his present. For each mother-of-pearl button he slipped free, he inched the fingers of his other hand a bit further under the vest, the glide of the silk lining against the back of his hand an enticing contrast to the heated skin and slippery strands of curling chest hair under his palm. 

He freed the last button and flipped both sides of the vest open, startling a quick inhale from his lover. Grinning, John fondled one peaked nipple, then dragged the nails of his right hand down Harold's chest, scraping lightly. With a muttered gasp/curse, Harold shuddered and curled toward him, head lifting off the pillow, strong hands clenching around John's biceps. 

Gazes locked, and then John slowly shifted, carefully easing Harold down, all thoughts of teasing gone. Keeping the bulk of his weight on his elbows, John lowered himself full length onto his partner, watching for any sign of discomfort as they settled skin to skin. Harold's body tensed against him for a moment, then it was as if he melted into the support of the mattress, muscles relaxed, pupils half-blown. 

John shifted a little to the right aligning their cocks, and gently rocked his hips. The drag of fragile hot skin sent a burst of fire through him, and elicited an answering pleasured moan from his partner. John leaned in to lick a drop of sweat from a hollowed collarbone and rocked again, his erection already leaking as it slid against his lover's. Harold's hands eased their grip on his arms, gliding up over his shoulders and then down John's back, coming to rest on his ass with just enough pressure to encourage him to continue. 

Burying a growl in the curve of Harold's neck, he rocked again, his lover meeting his thrust with a cant of his own hips. The world narrowed to the slow sensuous glide of skin, shared breaths, lingering touches, and deep wet kisses. Harold toppled over the edge first--a ripple of clenched muscles, a stuttered exhale, and a spill of warm semen that sent John spiraling after him. 

Easing his weight off his partner, John settled on his right side, dragging in deep breaths as he waited for the endorphin rush to ease. His left hand lay splayed over Harold's heart and he reveled in the strong beat that accompanied every rise and fall of his lover's chest.

An exasperated exhale from his partner made him glance up to meet a slightly disgruntled gaze.

"Harold?"

"You do realize you've just made it impossible for me to wear this vest in public."

John grinned and tugged the near side of the waistcoat over Harold's chest, smoothing the soft fabric appreciatively. "I'll buy you another one for the days you need to be respectable."

Harold huffed a laugh, mouth curving into a wide sweet smile, years falling away as his eyes glowed with contentment.

When his legs felt like they'd hold him up, John slipped from the bed to retrieve a warm damp cloth and a couple of soft towels from the bathroom. Harold, still languid from his orgasm, murmured appreciatively as John cleaned them up and helped him ease out of the vest. 

By the time Reese returned from draping the soiled towels over the shower rod, Harold had put his glasses back on and repositioned himself in the bed to sit upright against the headboard, pillows arranged to support his neck. This was part of their pattern, too. Harold would seldom drift off to sleep after sex, often choosing to putter on his laptop for a while--he had once admitted his mind felt freer at that time than any other--with John half-draped over him. Tonight he'd chosen a book for his busy mind to chew on instead; _The Art of War_ lay on his lap. 

John slid into bed and settled on his side, one arm curled under his pillow, facing his partner. Harold's left hand lay flat on the bed in the space between them. Reese covered it with own. 

"Will you rest for a while before you go?" Harold asked quietly. 

Reese felt the weight of their troubles settle over him once again. It had been easy to pretend for a while that they were just two lovers, sharing an evening together. That they were just John and Harold. 

Harold's fingers shifted, spreading apart to weave between John's, and twine them together. "Were things other than they are..." 

"But they aren't. We have other lives to lead." He couldn't quite keep the bitterness from his tone.

"Other lives to protect," Harold countered. 

Reese's lip twisted in distaste. "Until I finish those damn psych sessions I can't do much on that front."

"Without the protection of Detective Riley's cover--"

"Things go to hell." He shook his head, and gave his partner a wry teasing smile. "I know that's why you keep shoving me into Iris's arms." 

Harold's eyes lit with possessive fire and he squeezed John's fingers hard enough to make them ache. "It's her _professional_ services I'm encouraging you to take advantage of," he said tartly. He eased his grip, his gaze softening. "And not just because it would put Detective Riley back on the street. Our work...the good we're trying to do, is helping us both come to terms with some of the choices we made in the past. But it's still a world filled with violence. There are times when I worry you still feel like you're walking the path Kara Stanton set you upon. That there's still a monster inside you waiting to break free." 

He raised their hands and placed a kiss on John's scarred knuckles. "While I would wish that we could be all things to one another, John, I think...I think there are times, and situations, when a stranger can help more than a lover can."

Harold grimaced. "And although I _would_ selfishly prefer your listening ear didn't come in quite so attractive a package, and wasn't so closely attached to legitimate law enforcement, Dr. Campbell does have the right qualifications. If speaking with her would help you find some peace..."

John eased closer and slid one long leg between Harold's, letting their entwined bodies answer the question of who held his heart. As to the rest...he wasn't comfortable with introspection. His sessions with Iris had already pulled things out of him he had never thought to revisit. He carried a lot of secrets, and not all of them were his to share. Harold was one of those secrets and John would slit his own wrists before doing anything that would further endanger him. 

What he had here, with Harold, was more peace than he'd ever thought to have again. To have even more? It was an enticing idea, but the obstacles that stood in their way...

Harold squeezed his fingers again; a sign John's silent brooding was starting to concern his partner. Reese shifted his head on the pillow, staring with half-lidded eyes at the far wall. "Tell me about your artwork," he murmured absently.

"It's a visual representation of PSPACE-complete. In computational complexity theory, a decision problem is PSPACE-complete if it can be solved using an amount of memory that is polynomial in the input length, and if every problem that can be solved in polynomial space can be transformed to it in polynomial time."

John huffed a laugh and tilted his head back to look up at his partner. "In English, Finch."

Harold touched the cover of his book. "Think of it as a game theory application of _The Art of War._ "

Intrigued, John's gaze flicked to the art on the wall, then back to Harold. "Go on."

"The artwork as you call it, is the turtle configuration for the game of Mahjong Solitaire. One of the most challenging decision based games ever created. The game is played by moving open or exposed tiles either left or right, without disturbing the other tiles. The goal is to match open pairs of identical tiles and remove them from the board, exposing the tiles under them for play. The game is finished, when all pairs of tiles have been removed from the board or when there are no exposed pairs remaining.

"There is a certain amount of logical...guesswork and intuition required. Some tiles are partially obscured. Tiles that are below other tiles can't be seen. There is an element of risk in making a choice to pair up open tiles, without knowing what lies beneath them. The game can end rather quickly with the wrong choice. With trial and error, one gradually gains more information about the unknown 'nature' of the hidden tiles."

"Sounds a lot like our work with the Numbers, or our war against Samaritan," John mused.

Harold made a pleased sound in his throat. "Precisely. Many of the same strategies used to win at Mahjong Solitaire are analogous to our situation. We've been playing defense up to this point, learning how to survive and fly under Samaritan's radar. But as you pointed out--"

"It's about more than survival."

Harold nodded. "To use the words of Sun Tzu, _'In battle, there are not more than two methods of attack--the direct and the indirect; yet these two in combination give rise to an endless series of maneuvers.'_ Logistically, we can't mount a brute force attack against Samaritan."

"So we go the indirect route. Come at it from an angle it's not expecting."

"Ultimately, yes. Finding that angle...that's the challenge." Harold's expression grew pensive. "We're fighting a battle, from behind enemy lines no less, against an adversary with significant resources. We know very little about it, and it knows a great deal about us. That puts the odds significantly in Samaritan's favor. In addition, it's constantly growing in influence...learning. The variables we're facing are always changing. That's practically a textbook definition of a computational PSPACE-complete problem."

"And I'm guessing there isn't a textbook solution handy."

"Unfortunately, no. Finding an answer to the dilemma requires a...fluid approach. One needs to determine if there is _some_ move that can be made, such that for _all_ moves an opponent might make, there will then be _some_ move that will result in a winning hand."

"Countering an opponent's every move is almost impossible," John pointed out.

"True. But in this scenario, one doesn't have to counter _every_ move."

John quickly worked through the semantics. "You just have to stay in the game long enough to be in position to execute _your_ move when the opportunity arises."

"Yes. And even then..." Harold shrugged. 

"No guarantees," John said quietly. There was nothing that suggested any of them would be standing when this was over, even if they did manage to take down Samaritan. Of course, he'd never expected to die of old age. Neither of them did. 

Harold nodded toward the artwork. "I had that made as a reminder...that while the game is complex, and the odds are against you, there is still the chance that you can win." 

John studied their entwined fingers. "Solitaire is usually a one-player game."

"This one accommodates partners," Harold said quietly. He tapped the book again. "There is strength in numbers."

A strategy John embraced wholeheartedly. Together they were stronger. Better. 

He shifted positions a little, settling his head deeper into the pillow. "Does Whistler have office hours in the morning?"

Harold breathed out a resigned sigh. "Yes, although since we're nowhere near exam time, I doubt any students will darken my door. I'll use the time to finish up some of the unending paperwork academia seems to breed."

"I'll stay the night, then," John said decisively. "Drive you to campus in the morning."

Harold stiffened beside him. "John--"

He eyed his partner challengingly. "Does Whistler's contract contain a morals clause?"

Pale blue eyes blinked under a crinkled brow. "In regard to ethical infractions, and lewd and lascivious acts, yes." Another blink, and the frown lines eased. A hesitant smile twitched the corner of Harold's mouth. "However, the University has strict policies against discrimination, particularly in regard to same-sex partnerships."

"Then Detective Riley dropping off his 'boyfriend' shouldn't raise any eyebrows." 

"Clearly you've never been subjected to the unfettered waggling of tongues that is a faculty lounge," Harold muttered dryly. "I've already fielded numerous inquiries from the department secretary in regard to the 'handsome young man' seen popping in and out of my office."

"What did she want to know?"

"Whether you were _available,_ " Harold growled.

John squeezed his lover's hand. "Then we'll just have to give her confirmation that I'm off the market."

_"Mr. Reese--"_

"Strength in numbers, Mr. Finch. No PDAs will be necessary. Just wear that new vest. That'll tell her everything she needs to know."

 

****************

_All human lives are so profoundly and intricately entwined—those dead, those living, those generations yet to come—that the fate of all is the fate of each, and the hope of humanity rests in every heart and in every pair of hands._

_Therefore, after every failure, we are obliged to strive again for success, and when faced with the end of one thing, we must build something new and better in the ashes, just as from pain and grief, we must weave hope, for each of us is a thread critical to the strength—to the very survival of the human tapestry._

****************

End Notes

And so we come to the end of the series. My thanks for all the kind comments and encouragement. It's been an enjoyable process of plugging some plot holes and tossing in my own perspectives about the beginning of Season 4. 

For those unfamiliar with the term, 'Sofa-art' is a rather derogatory designation used to describe cheap mass produced pieces of artwork, often large in scale to hang on the wall above a couch, hence the name. 

My thanks to Mamahub for her input on the selection of Harold's robe in this story:  
http://www.robeworks.com/burgundy_black_luxury_robes_p/lj300-bgb.htm

Mahjong Solitaire: For a reference as to what the artwork on Professor Whistler's wall looks like, and for more information about the game, check out http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahjong_solitaire

For a fuller explanation of PSPACE-complete, go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/PSPACE-complete. If you can work your way through the technical 'stuff', you're more adept at math than I am. :)

***************

Acknowledgements

Dialogue, characters and references from various POI episodes. No copyright infringement intended. 

“In battle, there are not more than two methods of attack--the direct and the indirect; yet these two in combination give rise to an endless series of maneuvers.” --Sun Tzu

All human lives are so profoundly and intricately entwined—those dead, those living, those generations yet to come—that the fate of all is the fate of each, and the hope of humanity rests in every heart and in every pair of hands. Therefore, after every failure, we are obliged to strive again for success, and when faced with the end of one thing, we must build something new and better in the ashes, just as from pain and grief, we must weave hope, for each of us is a thread critical to the strength—to the very survival of the human tapestry. -- Dean Koontz, _From the Corner of His Eye_


End file.
